The talkers were putting the anaesthetizing-room in readiness for the afternoon. Sidney, waiting for the time to open the sterilizer, was busy, for the first time in her hurried morning, with her own thoughts. Because she was very human, there was a little exultation in her mind. What would these girls say when they learned of how things stood between her and their hero--that, out of all his world of society and clubs and beautiful women, he was going to choose her? Not shameful, this: the honest pride of a woman in being chosen from many. The voices were very clear. “Typhoid! Of course not. She's eating her heart out.” “Do you think he has really broken with her?” “Probably not. She knows it's coming; that's all.” “Sometimes I have wondered--” “So have others. She oughtn't to be here, of course. But among so many there is bound to be one now and then who--who isn't quite--” She hesitated, at a loss for a word. “Did you--did you ever think over that trouble with Miss Page about the medicines? That would have been easy, and like her.” “She hates Miss Page, of course, but I hardly think--If that's true, it was nearly murder.” There were two voices, a young one, full of soft southern inflections, and an older voice, a trifle hard, as from disillusion. They were working as they talked. Sidney could hear the clatter of bottles on the tray, the scraping of a moved table. “He was crazy about her last fall.” “Miss Page?” (The younger voice, with a thrill in it.) “Carlotta. Of course this is confidential.” “Surely.” “I saw her with him in his car one evening. And on her vacation last summer--” The voices dropped to a whisper. Sidney, standing cold and white by the sterilizer, put out a hand to steady herself. So that was it! No wonder Carlotta had hated her. And those whispering voices! What were they saying? How hateful life was, and men and women. Must there always be something hideous in the background? Until now she had only seen life. Now she felt its hot breath on her cheek. She was steady enough in a moment, cool and calm, moving about her work with ice-cold hands and slightly narrowed eyes. To a sort of physical nausea was succeeding anger, a blind fury of injured pride. He had been in love with Carlotta and had tired of her. He was bringing her his warmed-over emotions. She remembered the bitterness of her month's exile, and its probable cause. Max had stood by her then. Well he might, if he suspected the truth. For just a moment she had an illuminating flash of Wilson as he really was, selfish and self-indulgent, just a trifle too carefully dressed, daring as to eye and speech, with a carefully calculated daring, frankly pleasure-loving. She put her hands over her eyes. The voices in the next room had risen above their whisper. “Genius has privileges, of course,” said the older voice. “He is a very great surgeon. To-morrow he is to do the Edwardes operation again. I am glad I am to see him do it.”