"Oh, absolutely. I think he has some fine surgery in him."
"Character. Even—we—are a little short of it these days, Kennard. Some of our bright young men are just a little—dubious."
"I know."
Before six months had passed Mr. Christopher Sorrell was appointed to be one of the assistant surgeons at St. Martha's Hospital. Orange brought him the news, hot from that formal gathering where Sir Ormsby had taken shrewd care to make sure that it was his own pet cake that was put into the oven. Orange found Kit sitting by the window, looking abnormally serious.
"It is all right. You have it."
Kit remained very still in his chair. His seriousness seemed to increase.
"I hope I shan't let you down, Orange."
"My dear man!"
"All you good people. One never knows—quite—how one is going to react."
Orange looked at him with affectionate attention. Kit was finely strung, and no man who is capable of the big things faces the doing of them with complete complacency. Tremor, a dryness of the mouth, a sensitive agitation before the great speech or the picking up of the pen.
"I suppose I shall have to lecture."
"You'll do it very well."
Kit stared at his hands.
"I wonder what my first big op. will be like?"
Orange's face lit up with one of its deep and sombre smiles.
"The first hurdle is always the worst. I remember" He passed a hand over his forehead.
"I did not sleep much. I was to do a nephrotomy. But—then—you see—I had hatred and prejudice against me. I knew that the theatre would be packed with a lot of fellows who would be eager to see me fail. I think that is what gave me my nerve, the knowledge that I had to take the smirk off all those hostile faces. I hadn't one friend."
Kit looked at him suddenly.
"I should have liked to have been there. Yes, that is
