their trades by the look of them.  You learnt in what way to put your questions so that they should be understood, you discovered on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what inquiries you could extort the truth notwithstanding.  You saw the different way people took the same things.  The diagnosis of dangerous illness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by another with dumb despair.  Philip found that he was less shy with these people than he had ever been with others; he felt not exactly sympathy, for sympathy suggests condescension; but he felt at home with them.  He found that he was able to put them at their ease, and, when he had been given a case to find out what he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient delivered himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence.

“Perhaps,” he thought to himself, with a smile, “perhaps I’m cut out to be a doctor.  It would be rather a lark if I’d hit upon the one thing I’m fit for.”

It seemed to Philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic interest of those afternoons.  To the others men and women were only cases, good if they were complicated, tiresome if obvious; they heard murmurs and were astonished at abnormal livers; an unexpected sound in the lungs gave them something to talk about.  But to Philip there was much more.  He found an interest in just looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their hands, in the look of their eyes and the length of their noses.  You saw in that room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of custom was torn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw.  Sometimes you saw an untaught stoicism which was profoundly moving.  Once Philip saw a man, rough and illiterate, told his case was hopeless; and, self-controlled himself, he wondered at the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to keep a stiff upper-lip before strangers.  But was it possible for him to be brave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or would he then surrender to despair?  Sometimes there was tragedy.  Once a young woman brought her sister to be examined, a girl of eighteen, with delicate features and large blue eyes, fair hair that sparkled with gold when a ray of autumn sunshine touched it for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty.  The students’ eyes went to her with little smiles.  They did not often see a pretty girl in these dingy rooms.  The elder woman gave the family history, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and a sister, these two were the only ones left.  The girl had been coughing lately and losing weight.  She took off her blouse and the skin of her neck was like milk.  Dr. Tyrell examined her quietly, with his usual rapid method; he told two or three of his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he indicated with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress.  The sister was standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice, so that the girl should not hear.  Her voice trembled with fear.