“Oh, you’re so masterful!” she breathed. Wilfred’s arms relaxed. Startled, he tossed his head up, and stared into the dark. _Masterful!_ Of course, when one didn’t give a damn! What a horrid joke this business . . . ! However, there she waited, expectant. And after all she was very sweet. One couldn’t be wretched all the time. Here was a drug for wretchedness. He kissed her again. “What was the matter?” she whispered. “I thought I heard something,” he said with a lip that curled in self-mockery. “We are quite safe,” she whispered, wreathing her white arms around his neck. IX —— Hospital, St. Louis. Dear Wilfred: I came here because it was a good way off, and I wanted to make a clean break with everything. Besides, I was attracted by the reputation of Dr. Shales, whom they call the greatest surgeon in the world; the superhuman butcher. He’s the bright, particular star of this institution. It was rather a let-down to discover that dozens of other girls from all parts of the country had had the same idea. They flock here in droves. The majority are quickly sent home with fleas in their ears. But I was accepted. I suppose you’d say, you idealist, that there was something fine in this crusade of women to serve under the banner of pure intelligence and skill. But that’s not the half of it, dearie. There’s sex in it too. But not in my case. There’s sex in everything, isn’t there, like those horrid little bugs under damp wood. You’d understand what I mean if you could hear the nurses talking amongst themselves. Our God, the doctor, is the sole topic. But not much about his intelligence and skill. Not that you’d notice! Oh well, I suppose he’s only human. If you were to believe them, he’s a monster! Thank God! I’m no idealist! I’ve got no illusions to be shattered.