hideousness more than Doctor Gys
himself. When one poor Frenchman died under the operating knife, staring
with horror into the uncanny face the surgeon bent over him, Beth was
almost sure the fright had hastened his end. She said to Gys that
evening, when they met on deck, "Wouldn't it be wise for you to wear a
mask in the operating room?"

He considered the suggestion a moment, a deep flush spreading over his
face; then he nodded gravely.

"It may be an excellent idea," he agreed. "Once, a couple of years ago,
I proposed wearing a mask wherever I went, but my friends assured me the
effect would be so marked that it would attract to me an embarrassing
amount of attention. I have trained myself to bear the repulsion
involuntarily exhibited by all I meet and have taught myself to take a
philosophic, if somewhat cynical, view of my facial blemishes; yet in
this work I can see how a mask might be merciful to my patients. I will
experiment a bit along this line, if you will help me, and we'll see
what we can accomplish."

"You must not think," she said quietly, for she detected a little
bitterness in his tone, "that you are in any way repulsive to those who
know you well. We all admire you as a man and are grieved at the
misfortunes that marred your features. After all, Doctor, people of
intelligence seldom judge one by appearances."

"However they may judge me," said he, "I'm a failure. You say you admire
me as a man, but you don't. It's just a bit of diplomatic flattery. I'm
a good doctor and surgeon, I'll admit, but my face is no more repellent
than my cowardly nature. Miss Beth, I hate myself for my cowardice far
more than I detest my ghastly countenance. Yet I am powerless to remedy
either defect."

"I believe that what you term your cowardice is merely a physical
weakness," declared the girl. "It must have been caused by the suffering
you endured at the time of your various injuries. I have noticed that
suffering frequently unnerves one, and that a person who has once been
badly hurt lives in nervous terror of being hurt again."

"You are very kind to try to excuse my fault," said he, "but the truth
is I have always been a coward--from boyhood up."

"Yet you embarked on all those dangerous expeditions."

"Yes, just to have fun with myself; to sneer at the coward flesh, so to
speak. I used to long for dangers, and when they came upon me I would
jeer at and revile the quaking I could not repress. I pushed my
s