"You're too good-looking, Max," she had said, "and that's the truth. Now
that operations are as popular as fancy dancing, and much less bother, half
the women I know are crazy about their surgeons. I'm too fond of my peace
of mind."

"But, good Heavens! haven't you any confidence in me?" he had demanded.

"None whatever, Max dear." She had looked at him with level, understanding
eyes.

He put the disagreeable recollection out of his mind as he parked his car
and made his way to his office. Here would be people who believed in him,
from the middle-aged nurse in her prim uniform to the row of patients
sitting stiffly around the walls of the waiting-room. Dr. Max, pausing in
the hall outside the door of his private office, drew a long breath. This
was the real thing--work and plenty of it, a chance to show the other men
what he could do, a battle to win! No humanitarian was he, but a fighter:
each day he came to his office with the same battle lust.

The office nurse had her back to him. When she turned, he faced an
agreeable surprise. Instead of Miss Simpson, he faced a young and
attractive girl, faintly familiar.

"We tried to get you by telephone," she explained. "I am from the
hospital. Miss Simpson's father died this morning, and she knew you would
have to have some one. I was just starting for my vacation, so they sent
me."

"Rather a poor substitute for a vacation," he commented.