"
"Not yet. I'm better at my job than a great many men who are swells.
But I'm young--that'll cure itself. Oh, yes--I'm all right. Things have
gone on coming my way. I'll tell you about it sometime."
Cosgrave's eyes had rounded with their old solemn admiration.
"A fashionable West-End surgeon--oh, my word! I say, have you got a
bed-side manner tucked away somewhere?"
"No. That's not fashionable for one thing, and for another, it wouldn't
suit my style. I'm not interested in people. I'm interested in their
diseases. They know it, and rather like it." A touch of chill scorn
showed itself for a moment in his face. "They're frightened of me. I'm
as good as an electric shock to their lethargic, overfed carcasses. They
can't get over a young man with his way to make who wipes his boots on
them. They have to come back for more."
Cosgrave gave his little toneless laugh.
"I wish to God you'd frighten me. You know, when I felt how rotten I was
I thought of you. You always bucked me up--I believe I had a fool idea
that I'd find you in some scrubby suburban practice. Shows the bugs must
have got into my brain too, doesn't it? Now I suppose I'll have to ask
you to reduce your fees."
"I'll let you down easy. Say, a guinea a consultation!"
"I could manage that--if you don't want to consult too often. I've got
my bit saved. Not much to squander on out there, except whisky, and I
never took to that. Besides--my father's dead.
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