“You were to come,” K. encouraged her, “to see if we couldn't plan something for you. Now, I think I've got it.” “If it's another hospital--and I don't want to stay here, in the city.” “You like surgical work, don't you?” “I don't care for anything else.” “Before we settle this, I'd better tell you what I'm thinking of. You know, of course, that I closed my hospital. I--a series of things happened, and I decided I was in the wrong business. That wouldn't be important, except for what it leads to. They are trying to persuade me to go back, and--I'm trying to persuade myself that I'm fit to go back. You see,”--his tone was determinedly cheerful, “my faith in myself has been pretty nearly gone. When one loses that, there isn't much left.” “You had been very successful.” She did not look up. “Well, I had and I hadn't. I'm not going to worry you about that. My offer is this: We'll just try to forget about--about Schwitter's and all the rest, and if I go back I'll take you on in the operating-room.” “You sent me away once!” “Well, I can ask you to come back, can't I?” He smiled at her encouragingly. “Are you sure you understand about Max Wilson and myself?” “I understand.” “Don't you think you are taking a risk?” “Every one makes mistakes now and then, and loving women have made mistakes since the world began. Most people live in glass houses, Miss Harrison. And don't make any mistake about this: people can always come back. No depth is too low. All they need is the willpower.” He smiled down at her. She had come armed with confession. But the offer he made was too alluring. It meant reinstatement, another chance, when she had thought everything was over. After all, why should she damn herself? She would go back. She would work her finger-ends off for him. She would make it up to him in other ways. But she could not tell him and lose everything. “Come,” he said. “Shall we go back and start over again?” He held out his hand. CHAPTER XXIX Late September had come, with the Street, after its summer indolence taking up the burden of the year. At eight-thirty and at one the school bell called the children. Little girls in pig-tails, carrying freshly sharpened pencils, went primly toward the school, gathering, comet fashion, a tail of unwilling brothers as they went. An occasional football hurtled through the air. Le Moyne had promised the baseball club a football outfit, rumor said, but would not coach them himself this year. A story was going about that Mr. Le Moyne intended to go away. The Street had been furiously busy for a month. The cobblestones had gone, and from curb to curb stretched smooth asphalt. The fascination of writing on it with chalk still obsessed the children. Every few yards was a hop-scotch diagram. Generally speaking, too, the Street had put up new curtains, and even, here and there, had added a coat of paint.