the same time. Now it was very much occupied—by Bartlett and Kent O’Donnell.
As he saw her O’Donnell said, “Sorry, Lucy. I’ll get out. This place was never built for three.”
“There’s no need.” She squeezed past the two men and sat down at the tiny desk. “I have a couple of things to do, then I’m leaving.”
“You’d be wise to stay.” Gil Bartlett’s beard followed its usual bobbing course. His voice was bantering. “Kent and I are being extremely profound this morning. We’re discussing the entire future of surgery.”
“Some people will tell you it doesn’t have a future.” Lucy’s tone matched Bartlett’s. She had opened a desk drawer and was extracting some clinical notes she needed for one of her downtown appointments. “They say all surgeons are on the way to becoming extinct, that in a few years we’ll be as out-of-date as the dodo and the witch doctor.”
Nothing pleased Bartlett more than this kind of exchange. He said, “And who, I ask you, will do the cutting and plumbing on the bloomin’ bleeding bodies?”
“There won’t be any cutting.” Lucy had found the notes and reached for a brief case. “Everything will be diagnostic. Medicine will employ the forces of nature against nature’s own malfunctioning. Our mental health will have been proven as the root of organic disease. You’ll prevent cancer by psychiatry and gout by applied psychology.” She zippered the brief case, then added lightly, “As you may guess, I’m quoting.”
“I can hardly wait for it to happen.” Kent O’Donnell smiled. As always, nearness to Lucy gave him a feeling of pleasure. Was he being foolish, even ridiculous, in holding back from allowing their relationship to become more intimate? What was he afraid of, after all? Perhaps they should spend another evening together, then let whatever happened take its course. But here and now—with Gil Bartlett present—was obviously no time to make arrangements.
“I doubt if any of us will live that long.” As Lucy spoke the phone on the desk rang softly. She picked it up and answered, then passed the instrument to Gil Bartlett. “It’s for you.”
“Yes?” Bartlett said.
“Dr. Bartlett?” They could hear a woman’s voice at the other end of the line.
“Speaking.”
“This is Miss Rawson in Emergency. I have a message from Dr. Clifford.” Clifford was the hospital’s senior surgical resident.
“Go ahead.”
“He would like you to come down and scrub, if you can. There’s been a traffic accident on the turnpike. We’ve several seriously injured people, including a bad chest case. That’s the one Dr. Clifford would like your help with.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there.” Bartlett replaced the phone. “Sorry, Lucy. Have to finish some other time.” He moved to the doorway, then paused. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—I don’t think I’ll worry about unemployment. As long as they go on building bigger and faster motorcars there’ll always be a place for surgeons.”
He went out and, with a friendly nod to Lucy, O’Donnell followed him. Alone, Lucy paused a moment, then picked up the telephone again. When the operator answered, “I want a long-distance call, please,” she said, reaching for the slip of paper. “It’s person-to-person—Salem, Oregon.”
Threading the corridor traffic with the skill of long practice, Kent O’Donnell headed briskly for his own office in the hospital. He too had a full schedule ahead. In less than half an hour he was due on the operating floor; later there was a meeting of the medical executive committee, and after that he had several patients to see downtown, a program which would take him well into the evening.
As he walked he found himself thinking once more of Lucy Grainger. Seeing her, being as close as they were a few moments ago, had set him wondering again about Lucy and himself. But now the old familiar doubts—the feeling that perhaps their interests had too much in common for any permanent relationship—came crowding back.
He wondered why he had thought so much about Lucy lately—or any woman for that matter. Perhaps it was because the early forties were traditionally a restive time for men. Then he smiled inwardly, recollecting that there had seldom been a period when occasional love affairs—of one kind or another—had not come naturally to him. Nowadays they were merely spaced more widely apart. Also, of necessity, he was obliged to be considerably more discreet than in his younger years.
From Lucy his thoughts switched to Denise Quantz. Since the invitation to call her, which she had given him the night they had met at Eustace Swayne’s house, O’Donnell had confirmed his attendance at a surgeons’ congress in New York. It occurred to him that the date was next week; if he were to meet Mrs. Quantz, he had better make the arrangements soon.
As he turned into his office the clock over his desk showed twenty minutes before his first operation was scheduled. He picked up the telephone, telling himself it was always a good idea to do things when you thought of them.
He heard the operator trace the number through New York Information, then there was a ringing tone and a click. A voice said, “This’s Mrs. Quantz’s apartment.”
“I have a long-distance call for Mrs. Denise Quantz,” the Burlington operator said.
“Mrs. Quantz’s not here now.”
“Do you know where she can be reached?” The telephone company’s ritual was in motion.
“Mrs. Quantz’s in Burlington, Pennsylvania. Do you wish the number there?”
“If you please.” It was the Burlington operator again.
“The number is Hunter 6-5735.”
“Thank you, New York.” There was a click, then the operator said, “Did you get that number, caller?”
“Yes, thank you,” O’Donnell said, and hung up.
With his other hand he had already reached for the Burlington phone directory. He thumbed through it until he came to “Swayne, Eustace R.” As he had expected, the number listed was the one he had just been given.
Lifting the phone, he dialed again.
A male voice said, “Mr. Eustace Swayne’s residence.”
“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Quantz.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a pause. Then, “This is Mrs. Quantz.”
Until this moment O’Donnell had forgotten how much her voice had attracted him before. It had a soft huskiness, seeming to lend grace to the simplest words.
“I wonder if you remember,” he said. “This is Kent O’Donnell.”
“Of course! Dr. O’Donnell, how nice to hear from you!”
He had a sudden vision of her beside the telephone, the soft dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Then he said, “I just called you in New York. They gave me the number here.”
“I flew down last night,” Denise Quantz said. “Father had a touch of bronchitis. I thought I’d stay with him for a day or two.”
He asked courteously, “It’s not too serious, I hope?”
“Not really.” She laughed. “My father has the constitution of a mule—as well as the obstinacy.”
He thought: I can believe that. Aloud he said, “I was going to ask you to have dinner with me in New York. I expect to be there next week.”
“You can still ask me.” The reply was prompt and definite. “I’ll be back by then.”
On impulse he said, “Possibly I could anticipate. Do you have a free evening in Burlington?”
After a moment’s pause she said, “Tonight would be the only time.”
O’Donnell calculated quickly. His office appointments would go on until seven. But if nothing else came up . . .
His thoughts were interrupted. “Oh, wait!” It was Denise Quantz again. “I’d forgotten. Dr. Pearson is having dinner with my father; I think I ought to stay.” She added, “Unless you’d care to join us?”
Mentally he chuckled. Joe Pearson might be surprised to find him there. Instinct, though, told him it was not a good idea. He said, “Thank you, but I think perhaps we’d better postpone it.”
“Oh dear.” Her voice sounded disappointed; then she brightened. “I could meet you after dinner if you like. Father and Dr. Pearson are sure to get into one of their chess games, and when they do that anyone else might just as well not be there.”
