compromise between the strenuous scientific work of the hospital and the
grind of family practice. There were no night visits, no dreary work with
the poor--or only as much as you cared to do,--and it paid well, if you
took to it. Sommers reflected that the world said it paid Lindsay about
fifty thousand a year. It led, also, to lectureships, trusteeships--a mass
of affairs that made a man prominent and important in the community.

Sommers listened attentively without questioning the agreeable, tactful
doctor. He could see that something was in the air, that Lindsay was not a
man to talk with this degree of intimacy out of pure charity or vanity. But
the great specialist said nothing very definite after all: he let fall,
casually, the fact that good men for office work--men of experience who
were skilful and tactful--were rare. He had just lost a valuable doctor
from his staff.

When the men returned to the drawing-room, Parker Hitchcock and his cousin
took themselves off. The Lindsays went soon after. Sommers, who had
regained his good sense; tried to make his apologies to Miss Hitchcock.

"Don't go yet," she answered cordially. "They will all be disposed of soon,
and we can have that talk. Go and look at my prints."

In a few moments she came up behind him as he was studying the brush work
of a little canvas. "I have been thinking of what you said at the table,
Dr. Sommers. I have tried to think what you mean, but I can't."

Her eyes opened in frank, tolerant inquiry. Sommers had seen her like this
a few times, and always with a feeling of nearness.

"I don't believe that I can make you understand," he began.