Now the Senior Surgeon was a man who used capitals for Surgery, Science, and Self, unconsciously eliminating them elsewhere.  He had begun in Saint Margaret’s as house surgeon; and he had grown to be considered by many of his own profession the leading man of his day.  The trustees were as proud of him as they were of the hospital, and it has never been recorded in the traditions of Saint Margaret’s that the Senior Surgeon had ever asked for anything that went ungranted.  He seldom attended a board meeting; consequently when he came in at five-thirty there was an audible rustle of excitement and the raising of anticipatory eyebrows.

When the President called the meeting to order every trustee was present, as well as the heads of the four wards, the Superintendent, and the two surgeons.  The Senior Surgeon sat next to the President; the House Surgeon sat where he could watch equally well the profiles of the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee and Margaret MacLean.  His heart had always been inclined to intermit; or—­as he put it to himself—­he adored them both in quite opposite ways; and which way was the better and more endurable he had never been able to decide.

“In view of the fact,” said the President, rising, “that the Senior Surgeon can be with us but a short time this afternoon, and that he has a grave and vital issue to present to you, we will postpone the regular reports until the end of the meeting and take up at once the business in hand.”  He paused a moment, feeling the dramatic value of his next remark.  “For some time the Senior Surgeon has seriously questioned the—­hmm—­advisability of continuing the incurable ward.  He wishes very much to bring the matter before you, and he is prepared to give you his reasons for so doing.  Afterward, I think it would be wise for us to discuss the matter very informally.”  He bowed to the Senior Surgeon and sat down.

The Meanest Trustee snapped his teeth together in an expression of grim satisfaction.  “That ward is costing a lot of unnecessary expense, I think,” he barked out, sharply, “and it’s being run with altogether too free a hand.”  And he looked meaningly toward Margaret MacLean.

No one paid any particular attention to his remark; they were too deeply engrossed in the Senior Surgeon.  And the House Surgeon, watching, saw the profile of the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee become even prettier as it blushed and turned in witching eagerness toward the man who was rising to address the meeting.  The other profile had turned rigid and white as a piece of marble.

Now the Senior Surgeon could do a critical major operation in twenty minutes; and he could operate on critical issues quite as rapidly.  Speed was his creed; therefore he characteristically attacked the subject in hand without any prefatory remarks.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the board, the incurable ward is doing nothing.  I can see no possible reason or opportunity for further observation or experimentation there.  Every case in it at the present time, as well as every Case that is likely to come to us, is as a sealed document as far as science is concerned.  They are incurable—­they will remain incurable for all time.”