that can pay my prices better than what you specialists ask.”
Max laughed with genuine amusement.
“I dare say, if this is the way you let them pay your prices.”
He held out the envelope, and the older man colored.
Very proud of Dr. Max was his brother, unselfishly proud, of his skill, of his handsome person, of his easy good manners; very humble, too, of his own knowledge and experience. If he ever suspected any lack of finer fiber in Max, he put the thought away. Probably he was too rigid himself. Max was young, a hard worker. He had a right to play hard.
He prepared his black bag for the day's calls—stethoscope, thermometer, eye-cup, bandages, case of small vials, a lump of absorbent cotton in a not over-fresh towel; in the bottom, a heterogeneous collection of instruments, a roll of adhesive plaster, a bottle or two of sugar-milk tablets for the children, a dog collar that had belonged to a dead collie, and had put in the bag in some curious fashion and there remained.
He prepared the bag a little nervously, while Max ate. He felt that modern methods and the best usage might not have approved of the bag. On his way out he paused at the dining-room door.
“Are you going to the hospital?”
“Operating at four—wish you could come in.”
“I'm afraid not, Max. I've promised Sidney Page to speak about her to you. She wants to enter the training-school.”
“Too young,” said Max briefly. “Why, she can't be over sixteen.”
“She's eighteen.”
“Well, even eighteen. Do you think any girl of that age is responsible enough to have life and death put in her hands? Besides, although I haven't noticed her lately, she used to be a pretty little thing. There is no use filling up the wards with a lot of ornaments; it keeps the internes all stewed up.”
“Since when,” asked Dr. Ed mildly, “have you found good looks in a girl a handicap?”
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