Juggernaut. Alice Campbell
for patients. Looking about, Esther wondered why physicians' reception-rooms were invariably so uninviting, so lacking in personality. This one was particularly drab and cold, though she could not say that it was shabby or in more than usual bad taste. It was furnished in nondescript French style, a mixture of periods, with heavy olive-green curtains at the windows shutting out most of the light, and pale cotton brocade on the modern Louis Seize chairs. A plaster bust of Voltaire on the mantel-piece was flanked by Louis Philippe candlesticks, the whole reflected in a gilt-framed mirror extending to the ceiling. Across the middle of the room stretched a reproduction Louis Quinze table with ormolu mounts, and on it were stacked regular piles of magazines, French and English. Everything was in meticulous order. The parquet shone with a glassy finish. From the corner a tall clock ticked loudly, deliberately. The house was very still.
Suddenly Esther felt uncomfortable, oppressed. Yet why? There was no reason to dread the coming interview. Indeed, she could think of no plausible explanation for the absurd panic which overtook her in a flash. Why, for a single instant she had half a mind to bolt out of the house before the doctor appeared. What utter nonsense! How ashamed she would have been! To steady herself she picked up the folded copy of the morning paper facing her and opening it re-read the advertisement that had brought her here. It was plain and to the point:
"Dr. Gregory Sartorius of 86, Route de Grasse, wishes to find a well-educated young Englishwoman, trained nurse preferred, to assist him in his work. Good references essential. Applicants may call between two and four."
It sounded just the thing. Suitable jobs were not plentiful in Cannes,
her three-day search had been sufficient to convince her of that fact.
She hoped she would land this one; if not, it would probably mean New
York again, and the blizzard. She hated to be beaten.
A shadow darkened the glass doors. She sprang to her feet, slightly disconcerted to feel that the doctor had been silently inspecting her from without, perhaps for several seconds. Again she was impatient with herself for the odd suggestion of alarm which came upon her. She was not usually nervous like this.
What an immense man he was! That was her first thought as he paused for an instant in the doorway, scrutinising her. Big and rather clumsily built, with awkward, slow movements. He had a student's stoop, and his skin was brownish and dull, his whole heavy person suggesting the sedentary worker. His low forehead, receding into a bald head, was oddly flattish in shape. It reminded Esther of something—she couldn't think what. He stood with his head slightly lowered and regarded her deliberately, appraisingly, before he uttered a word. She could hear his breathing.
"Good afternoon, Miss … "
He stopped inquiringly.
"My name is Rowe. I've come about the advertisement, doctor."
He approached slowly, showing a sort of lethargic reluctance towards effort which extended even to the muscles of his almost expressionless face. To some he might have appeared dull and stupid, but Esther knew this was not true. There was life in the flicker of his small eyes, deep-set, bilious in tinge, and as she looked into them she received the impression of a great inner concentration of energy.
"You are American, I see."
"Well, Canadian, as a matter of fact. I trained in New York."
"A nurse, then. Where did you train?"
"St. Luke's."
She thought this made a good impression.
He made a chary movement of his hand towards a chair and at the same time sank into a fragile fauteuil, which creaked with his weight. He sighed, obviously bored with the prospect of the interview.
"What are you doing in France?"
"I came here as companion to a patient of mine who hates travelling alone. We stopped a week in Paris; then I brought her here, where she met some friends with whom she went on to Algeria. It was arranged beforehand. I was only to come as far as Cannes. I've been here a week now, and I was going back to New York, only——"
"Well?"
Esther smiled with the complete frankness which was one of her greatest assets.
"Well, doctor, I've never been abroad before, and I may never come again. It seems so stupid, having come so far, not to stay more than two weeks. I love it here. Only in order to stay I must get some work; I can't afford to be idle."
He seemed to find this reasonable, though not interesting, glancing away from her in a bored fashion.
"I see. Now about this place. What I want is a nurse who will be in attendance here from nine in the morning till six in the afternoon; someone thoroughly responsible, who will make appointments, do a little secretarial work, answer the telephone, and, of course, assist when there are examinations. The usual thing."
"Yes, doctor, I understand."
"Can you typewrite?"
"A little. I'll improve with practice."
"Know French?"
"Not too well, but I mean to study."
"It's of no great consequence, most of my patients are English. How old are you?"
It was a medical, impersonal question. He might have been inquiring the age of her grandmother in Manitoba.
"I'm nearly twenty-six."
"You look younger, but no one can tell these days. Now as to references. What can you show me?"
"I have brought my certificate from the hospital, and I have my passport, of course——"
"Let me see them."
He examined both, not omitting to look at the libellous photograph on the passport.
"Still, these are not really sufficient, Miss—Miss Rowe. They tell me nothing of your reputation, your character."
"I'd thought of that," she replied quickly. "I've got a letter written by Miss Ferriss, the patient I came with. She's known me several years."
"Ah! And how am I to know you didn't write the letter yourself?"
She was on firm ground now.
"I thought of that, too. I got her to write it in the presence of the manager of the Carlton Hotel and deposit it with him. You can ask him to show it to you."
He raised his brows slightly, seeming to admit, though with a bad grace, that she might not be as much of a fool as he first thought her. She suspected that his opinion of women was low.
"I see. Of course it won't tell me what I chiefly want to know, but I'll look it up. What I must have," and he brought his hand down weightily on the table, "is accuracy. Accuracy and precision … you see, I shall want you sometimes to help me in the laboratory."
"I thought you were a scientist!"
He looked at her with a flicker of interest.
"Oh? Why did you think that?"
She felt confused.
"I'm not quite sure. Something about you suggests a scientist. I worked one summer with a Rockefeller Institute man who was doing research. Perhaps that's why."
"Who was he?"
"Dr. Blumenfeld. He was working on infantile paralysis."
He nodded. "Blumenfeld; yes, I know him. He's on the wrong tack."
Slowly he hoisted his big body up out of the chair, giving the impression that the interview was finished.
"What am I to understand, then, doctor? Do you think you will want me?"
He bent his cold and impersonal gaze on her and again she felt oppressed. Her eyes dwelt on his rather ugly, flattish forehead, which somehow fascinated her. He appeared to be thinking of something else and trying at the same time