“But it is a ‘spree,’ sir!” she attested resolutely.  “And my father says—­” Still resolutely her young mouth curved to its original assertion, but from under her heavy-shadowing eyelashes a little blue smile crept softly out.  “When my father’s got a lame trotting horse, sir, that he’s trying to shuck off his hands,” she faltered, “he doesn’t ever go round mournful-like with his head hanging—­telling folks about his wonderful trotter that’s just ’the littlest, teeniest, tiniest bit—­lame.’  Oh no!  What father does is to call up every one he knows within twenty miles and tell ’em, ’Say Tom,—­Bill,—­Harry,’—­or whatever his name is—­’what in the deuce do you suppose I’ve got over here in my barn?  A lame horse—­that wants to trot!  Lamer than the deuce, you know!  But can do a mile in 2.40.’” Faintly the little blue smile quickened again in the White Linen Nurse’s eyes.  “And the barn will be full of men in half an hour!” she said.  “Somehow nobody wants a trotter that’s lame!  But almost anybody seems willing to risk a lame horse—­that’s plucky enough to trot!”

“What’s the ‘lame trotting horse’ got to do with—­me?” snarled the Senior Surgeon incisively.

Darkly the White Linen Nurse’s lashes fringed down across her cheeks.

“Nothing much,” she said, “Only—­”

“Only what?” demanded the Senior Surgeon.  A little more roughly than he realized he stooped down and took the White Linen Nurse by her shoulders, and jerked her sharply round to the light.  “Only what?” he insisted peremptorily.

Almost plaintively she lifted her eyes to his.  “Only—­my father says,” she confided obediently, “my father says if you’ve got a worse foot—­for Heaven’s sake put it forward—­and get it over with!

“So—­I’ve got to call it a ’spree’!” smiled the White Linen Nurse.  “’Cause when I think of marrying a—­surgeon—­that goes off and gets drunk every June—­it—­it scares me almost to my death!  But—­” Abruptly the red smile faded from her lips, the blue smile from her eyes.  “But—­when I think of marrying a—­June drunk—­that’s got the grit to pull up absolutely straight as a die and be a surgeon—­all the other ’leven months in the year—­” Dartingly she bent down and kissed the Senior Surgeon’s astonished wrist.  “Oh, then I think you’re perfectly grand!” she sobbed.

Awkwardly the Senior Surgeon pulled away and began to pace the floor.

“You’re a—­good little girl, Rae Malgregor,” he mumbled huskily.  “A good little girl.  I truly believe you’re the kind that will—­see me through.”  Poignantly in his eyes humiliation overwhelmed the mist.  Perversely in its turn resentment overtook the humiliation.  “But I won’t be married in June!” he reasserted bombastically.  “I won’t!  I won’t!  I won’t!  I tell you I positively refuse to have a lot of damn fools speculating about my private affairs!  Wondering why I didn’t take you!  Wondering why I didn’t stay home with you!  I tell you I won’t!  I simply won’t!”