“There is no finer soil in the world,” I protested, doggedly.

Every man in the world and at least half the women would have agreed with me.  The grace of her charming figure, her smiles and that one little dimple, the waving abundance of her silken hair, the rich inflections of her voice, each and all contradicted that foolish supposition of hers.

“Well, I thought this was an invitation to dinner,” remarked Dora, sweetly, with all the brutal talent of her sex for changing the drift of conversation.  “Of course they fed us well at the hospital, when we had time to eat, but....”

“Is that your last word?” I asked, trying to subdue the eagerness of my voice.

“If you don’t really care to go....”

I rose and sought my hat and overcoat, while Dora wandered about my unpretentious office.

“Your landlady could take lessons from Paddy’s pig in cleanliness,” she declared, running a finger over my bookcase and contemplating it with horror.  “I wonder that you, a surgeon, should be an accomplice to such a mess.”

“It’s pretty bad,” I admitted, “but the poor thing has weak eyes, and she has seen better days.”

“She deserves the bad ones, then,” Dora exclaimed.

“As in the case of many other maladies, we have as yet been unable to discover the microbe of woman’s inhumanity to woman,” I observed.

“When doggies meet they commonly growl,” said Dora, “and when pussies meet they usually spit and scratch.  Each according to his or her nature.  And it seems to me that you could afford a new overcoat.  That one is positively becoming green.”

“I do believe I have another one, somewhere,” I admitted.

“Then go and find it,” she commanded.  “You need some one to look after you.”

I turned on her like the proverbial flash, or perhaps like the Downtrodden worm.

“Isn’t that just what I’ve been gnashing my teeth over?” I asked.  “I’m glad you have the grace to admit it.”

“I’ll admit anything you like,” she said.  “But, John dear, we can’t really be sure yet that I’m the one who ought to do it.  And—­and maybe there will be no room at the tables unless we hurry a little.”

She was buttoning up her gloves again, quite coolly, and cast approving glances at some radiographic prints on my wall.

“That must have been a splendid fracture,” she commented.

“You are a few million years old in the ways of Eve,” I told her, “but you are still young in the practice of trained nursing.  To you broken legs and, perhaps, broken hearts, are as yet but interesting cases.”

She turned her shapely head towards me, and for an instant her eyes searched mine.

“Do you really believe that?” she asked, in a very low-sweet voice.

I stood before her, penitently.

“I don’t suppose I do,” I acknowledged.  “Let us say that it was just some of the growling of the dog.  He doesn’t usually mean anything by it.”