"Your roses are wonderful," he remarked conversationally.

Here was a subject on which I cannot fail to become eloquent. I opened my eyes. This was a mistake, for in so doing I met that steel-blue glance which always disconcerts me.

"They are," I said, and let the opening pass.

"I'd like to see some there," he continued, very rudely pointing his finger at my face.

I put my hands hastily to my cheeks.

"Now," he announced with satisfaction, "that's more like!"

Diary, it was stupid of me to blush!

"You do not admire pallor?" I asked politely.

"Certainly not the pallor of ill-health," was the professional answer. "It may be poetic, but it is hardly—practical."

"You do not admire poetry?"

Doctor Denton ceased twirling one of my loveliest roses between his fingers, and leaned forward to lay it carefully across my nearest braid. Gravely considering the effect, he replied,

"Not as a steady diet."

I slipped my hand under my pillow and closed it down hard over a certain volume.

"I do not suppose that surgery and poetry are particularly compatible," I volunteered, with indifference.

He lifted the rose from my braid and regarded it silently. When he looked up, I was astonished to see 19 a light in the Alaskan eyes which I never dreamed could live in so cold a climate.

19

"You're all wrong," he answered; "there's a tremendous amount of poetry in surgery,—beauty, too, and limitless romance."

I didn't know those words were in his vocabulary. A trifle stirred by his tone, I made a little moue of scepticism.

"Instruments—and white coats—and ether," I was beginning, when he interrupted me.

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