“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