“Oh no, they couldn’t—­” There was something hypnotic in the persistence of the nurse in charge of Ward C.

Usually keenly sensitive, abnormally alive to impressions and atmosphere, she shrank from ever intruding herself or her opinions where they were not welcome; but now all personal consciousness was dead.  She was wholly unaware that she had worked the Senior Surgeon into a state where he had almost lost his self-control—­a condition heretofore unknown in the Senior Surgeon; that she had exasperated the President and reduced the trustees to open-mouthed amazement.  The lorgnette shook unsteadily in the hand of the Oldest; and, unmindful of it all, Margaret MacLean went steadily on: 

“Most of them haven’t any homes, and the others couldn’t live in theirs a month.  You don’t know how terrible they are—­five families in one garret, nothing to eat some of the time, father drunk most of the time, and filth and foul air all of the time.  That’s the kind of homes they have—­if they have any.”

Her outburst was met with a complete silence, ignoring and humiliating.  After a moment the Senior Surgeon went on, as if no one had spoken.

“Am I not right in supposing that you wish to further, as far as it lies within your power, the physical welfare and betterment of the poor in this city?  That you wish to do the greatest possible good to the greatest number of children?  Ah!  I thought so.  Well, do you not see how continuing to keep a number of incurable cases for two or three years—­or as long as they live—­is hindering this?  You are keeping out so many more curable cases.  For every case in that ward now we could handle ten or fifteen surgical cases each year.  Is that not worth considering?”

The trustees nodded approval to one another; it was as if they would say, “The Senior Surgeon is always right.”

The surgeon himself looked at his watch; he had three minutes left to clinch their convictions.  Clearly and admirably he outlined his present scope of work; then, stepping into the future, he showed into what it might easily grow, had it the room and beds.  He showed indisputably what experimental surgery had done for science—­what a fertile field it was; and wherein lay Saint Margaret’s chance to plow a furrow more and reap its harvest.  At the end he intimated that he had outgrown his present limited conditions there, that unless these were changed he should have to betake himself and his operative skill elsewhere.

A painfully embarrassing hush closed in on the meeting as the Senior Surgeon resumed his seat.  It was broken by an enthusiastic chirp from the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee.  She had never attempted to keep her interest for him concealed in the bud, causing much perturbation to the House Surgeon, and leading the Disagreeable Trustee to remark, frequently: 

“Good Lord!  She’ll throw herself at his head until he loses consciousness, and then she’ll marry him.”