“In my own case,” said the Senior Surgeon bluntly, “in my own case, Miss Malgregor, it is no more than fair to tell you that I—­did not love my wife.  And my wife did not love me.”  Only the muscular twitch in his throat betrayed the torture that the confession cost him.  “The details of that marriage are unnecessary,” he continued with equal bluntness.  “It is enough perhaps to say that she was the daughter of an eminent surgeon with whom I was exceedingly anxious at that time to be allied, and that our mating, urged along on both sides as it was by strong personal ambitions was one of those so-called ‘marriages of convenience’ which almost invariably turn out to be marriages of such dire inconvenience to the two people most concerned.  For one year we lived together in a chaos of experimental acquaintanceship.  For two years we lived together in increasing uncongeniality and distaste.  For three years we lived together in open and acknowledged enmity.  At the last, I am thankful to remember, that we had one year together again that was at least an—­armed truce.”

Darkly the gray shadow and the red flush chased each other once more across the man’s haggard face.

“I had a theory,” he said, “that possibly a child might bridge the chasm between us.  My wife refuted the theory, but submitted herself reluctantly to the fact.  And when she—­in giving birth to—­my theory,—­the shock, the remorse, the regret, the merciless self-analysis that I underwent at that time almost convinced me that the whole miserable failure of our marriage lay entirely on my own shoulders.”  Like the stress of mid-summer the tears of sweat started suddenly on his forehead.  “But I am a fair man, I hope,—­even to myself, and the cooler, less-tortured judgment of the subsequent years has practically assured me that, for types as diametrically opposed as ours, such a thing as mutual happiness never could have existed.”

Mechanically he bent down and smoothed a tickly lock of hair away from the little girl’s eyelids.

“And the child is the living physical image of her,” he stammered.  “The violent hair,—­the ghost-white skin,—­the facile mouth,—­the arrogant eyes,—­staring—­staring—­maddeningly reproachful, persistently accusing.  My own stubborn will,—­my own hideous temper,—­all my own ill-favored mannerisms—­mocked back at me eternally in her mother’s—­unloved features.”  Mirthless as the grin of a skull, the Senior Surgeon’s mouth twisted up a little at one corner.  “Maybe I could have borne it better if she’d been a boy,” he acknowledged grimly.  “But to see all your virile—­masculine vices come back at you—­so sissified—­in skirts!”

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

With an unmistakable gasp of relief the Senior Surgeon expanded his great chest.