At nine o’clock, however,—­patroling his long rangy book-shelves, he sensed with a very different feeling through his heavy oak door, the soft whirring swish of skirts and the breathy twitter of muffled voices.  Faintly to his acute ears came the sound of his little daughter’s temperish protest, “I won’t!  I won’t!” and the White Linen Nurse’s fervid pleading, “Oh, you must,—­you must!” and the Little Girl’s mumbled ultimatum, “Well, I won’t unless you do!”

Irascibly he crossed the room and yanked the door open abruptly upon their surprise and confusion.  His nerves were very sore.

“What in thunder do you want?” he snarled.

Nervously for an instant the White Linen Nurse tugged at the Little
Girl’s hand.  Nervously for an instant the Little Girl tugged at the
White Linen Nurse’s hand.  Then with a swallow like a sob the White Linen
Nurse lifted her glowing face to his.

“K—­kiss us good night!” said the White Linen Nurse.

Telescopically all in that startling second, vision after vision beat down like blows upon the Senior Surgeon’s senses!  The pink, pink flush of the girl!  The lure of her!  The amazing sweetness!  The physical docility!  Oh ye gods,—­the docility!  Every trend of her birth,—­of her youth,—­of her training,—­forcing her now—­if he chose it—­to unquestioning submission to his will and his judgment!  Faster and faster the temptation surged through his pulses!  The path from her lips to her ear was such a little path,—­the plea so quick to make, so short,—­“I want you now!”

“K—­kiss us good night!” urged the Big Girl’s unsuspecting lips.  “Kiss us good night!” mocked the Little Girl’s tremulous echo.

Then explosively with the noblest rudeness of his life, “No, I won’t!” said the Senior Surgeon, and slammed the door in their faces.

Falteringly up the stairs he heard the two ascending,—­speechless with surprise, perhaps,—­stunned by his roughness,—­still hand in hand, probably,—­still climbing slowly bed-ward,—­the soft, smooth, patient footfall of the White Linen Nurse and the jerky, laborious clang-clang-clang of a little dragging iron-braced leg.

Up and down,—­round and round,—­on and on and on,—­the Senior Surgeon resumed his pacing.  Under his eyes great shadows darkened.  Along the corners of his mouth the lines furrowed like gray scars.  Up and down,—­round and round,—­on and on and on—­and on!

At ten o’clock, sitting bolt upright in her bed with her worried eyes straining bluely out across the Little Girl’s somnolent form into unfathomable darkness, the White Linen Nurse in the throb of her own heart began to keep pace with that faint, horrid thud-thud-thud in the room below.  Was he passing the book-case now?  Had he reached the bay-window?  Was he dawdling over those glistening scalpels?  Would his nerves remember the flask in that upper desk drawer?  Up and down,—­round and round,—­on and on,—­the harrowing sound continued.