“Then you mean to say it is chance that has made Sebastian?”

Hilda shook her pretty head.  “By no means.  Don’t be so stupid.  We both know Sebastian has a wonderful brain.  Whatever was the work he undertook with that brain in science, he would carry it out consummately.  He is a born thinker.  It is like this, don’t you know.”  She tried to arrange her thoughts.  “The particular branch of science to which Mr. Hiram Maxim’s mind happens to have been directed was the making of machine-guns—­and he slays his thousands.  The particular branch to which Sebastian’s mind happens to have been directed was medicine—­and he cures as many as Mr. Maxim kills.  It is a turn of the hand that makes all the difference.”

“I see,” I said.  “The aim of medicine happens to be a benevolent one.”

“Quite so; that’s just what I mean.  The aim is benevolent; and Sebastian pursues that aim with the single-minded energy of a lofty, gifted, and devoted nature—­but not a good one!’

“Not good?”

“Oh, no.  To be quite frank, he seems to me to pursue it ruthlessly, cruelly, unscrupulously.  He is a man of high ideals, but without principle.  In that respect he reminds one of the great spirits of the Italian Renaissance—­Benvenuto Cellini and so forth—­men who could pore for hours with conscientious artistic care over the detail of a hem in a sculptured robe, yet could steal out in the midst of their disinterested toil to plunge a knife in the back of a rival.”

“Sebastian would not do that,” I cried.  “He is wholly free from the mean spirit of jealousy.”

“No, Sebastian would not do that.  You are quite right there; there is no tinge of meanness in the man’s nature.  He likes to be first in the field; but he would acclaim with delight another man’s scientific triumph—­if another anticipated him; for would it not mean a triumph for universal science?—­and is not the advancement of science Sebastian’s religion?  But . . . he would do almost as much, or more.  He would stab a man without remorse, if he thought that by stabbing him he could advance knowledge.”

I recognised at once the truth of her diagnosis.  “Nurse Wade,” I cried, “you are a wonderful woman!  I believe you are right; but—­ how did you come to think of it?”

A cloud passed over her brow.  “I have reason to know it,” she answered, slowly.  Then her voice changed.  “Take another muffin.”

I helped myself and paused.  I laid down my cup, and gazed at her.  What a beautiful, tender, sympathetic face!  And yet, how able!  She stirred the fire uneasily.  I looked and hesitated.  I had often wondered why I never dared ask Hilda Wade one question that was nearest my heart.  I think it must have been because I respected her so profoundly.  The deeper your admiration and respect for a woman, the harder you find it in the end to ask her.  At last I almost made up my mind.  “I cannot think,” I began, “what can have induced a girl like you, with means and friends, with brains and”—­I drew back, then I plumped it out—­“beauty, to take to such a life as this—­a life which seems, in many ways, so unworthy of you!”