Little Poems in Prose

“Wait a moment,” said she; “those are the house-surgeons, and in this packet are stu- dents. And she spread out like a fan a whole lot of photographs representing much younger faces. “When we see each other next you will give me your portrait, won’t you darling?” “But,” said I to her, pursuing in my turn my own fixed idea, “why do you think I am a doc- tor?” “Because you are so nice, and so kind to women.” “Singular logic,” said I to myself. “Oh, I am hardly ever deceived, I have known ever so many of them. I love doctors so much, that although I am not ill I sometimes go and see them just for the pleasure of seeing them. Some of them say coldly to me, ‘There is nothing the matter with you,’ but there are others who understand me because I make eyes at them.” “And when they fail to understand you?” “Why, as I bother them uselessly, I leave ten francs upon the mantelpiece. They are so kind and so gentle, these men. I discovered at La Pitié a little house-surgeon who is as pretty as an angel, and oh, so polite, and works—the poor boy—how he works! His comrades told me that he had no money because his parents