Afterward O’Donnell had driven Lucy home. She had recently moved into Benvenuto Grange, a large, fashionable apartment block on the north side of town. She had said, “You’ll come in for a nightcap, of course?”

He had left his car for the uniformed doorman to park and followed her. They rode the gleaming, silent elevator to the fifth floor, then turned down a birch-paneled corridor, their footsteps silenced in deep broadloom. He had raised his eyebrows and Lucy smiled. “It is a little awesome, isn’t it? I’m still impressed myself.”

She had used her key to open a door and inside touched a switch. Tasteful, subdued lighting sprang up around an elegant interior lounge. He could see the partly opened door of a bedroom directly ahead. “I’ll mix us a drink,” she said.

Her back was to him. Ice clinked in glasses. O’Donnell said, “Lucy, you’ve never married?”

“No.” She had answered without turning.

He said softly, “I’ve sometimes wondered why.”

“It’s very simple really. It’s quite some time since I was asked.” Lucy turned, carrying the drinks she had mixed. She gave O’Donnell his, then moved to a chair. She said thoughtfully, “Now I think of it, there was only one occasion—at least, only one that mattered. I was a good deal younger then.”

O’Donnell sipped his drink. “And your answer was ‘no’?”

“I wanted a career in medicine. At the time it seemed terribly important. That and marriage didn’t seem to go together.”

He asked casually, “Any regrets?”

Lucy considered. “Not really, I suppose. I’ve achieved what I wanted, and it’s been rewarding in many ways. Oh, sometimes one wonders how things would have turned out with a different decision, but after all, that’s human, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” O’Donnell was conscious of being strangely moved. There was a sense of depth and tenderness about Lucy, a feeling of peacefulness and coming home. She should have children, he thought. He had asked, “Do you still feel the same way about marriage and medicine—for you, that is?”

“I’m no longer dogmatic about anything.” She smiled. “That, at least, I’ve learned.”

O’Donnell wondered what, from his own point of view, marriage to Lucy would be like. Would there be love and mellowness? Or had each of their careers gone parallel too far and too long for change and adjustment now. If married, how might they spend their hours of leisure? Would the talk be intimate and domestic? Or would it be of hospital affairs, with charts on the table at dinner and diagnostic problems for dessert? Would he perhaps, instead of gaining sanctuary, find merely another offshoot of medicine and his daily work. Aloud he said, “I’ve always thought, you know, that we have a good deal in common.”

“Yes, Kent,” Lucy answered, “so have I.”

O’Donnell had finished his drink, then risen to leave. He realized they had both said a good deal more than had passed in words. Now he wanted time to think and to reason things through. Too much was involved for hasty decisions.

“There’s really no need to go, Kent. Stay if you wish.” Lucy had said it simply, and he knew if he stayed it would be up to him what happened next.

Part of his mind had told him to remain, but caution and habit won out. He took her hands. “Good night, Lucy. Let’s think about all this.”

When the elevator doors had closed she was still standing at the open apartment door.

“I asked you here,” O’Donnell told the group around the board-room table, “because I’d like your support in something I want to do.” The others were listening attentively. Of those they had asked, all had come except Reubens, who had a herniorrhaphy scheduled. O’Donnell went on, “I think we all know there’s a problem in Pathology. I believe, too, you’ll agree it’s a personal problem as well as medical.”

“What kind of a problem?” It was Charlie Dornberger. As the elderly obstetrician talked he filled his pipe. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, Kent.”

O’Donnell had expected something like this. He knew that Dornberger and Pearson were close friends. Politely he said, “I’d like you to hear me out, Charlie, if you will. I’ll try to make it clear.”

Methodically he went over the issues involved—the delays in surgical reports, the increasing service the hospital required from its pathology department, his own doubts that Joe Pearson could cope with them alone. He related the incident of Bill Rufus’ patient, turning to Rufus for confirmation, and followed it with the report he had had from Reubens that morning. He told them of his own interview with Pearson and the old man’s refusal to accept a second pathologist. He concluded: “I’m convinced we do need a new man to help Joe out. I want your support in seeing that one is brought in.”

“I’ve been concerned about Pathology too.” Promptly, as if to ensure the observance of protocol, Harvey Chandler, the chief of medicine, followed O’Donnell. His words held the suggestion of a judicial opinion weightily delivered; as usual, his simplest statements contained an air of mild pomposity. He continued, “But the situation may be difficult with Joe Pearson feeling the way he does. After all, he’s a department head, and we ought to avoid any suggestion of undermining his authority.”

“I agree,” O’Donnell responded, “and that’s why I want some help.” He drummed his fingers on the desk top for emphasis. “Some help in convincing Joe Pearson that changes are necessary.”

“I’m not sure I like the way we’re doing this,” Bill Rufus said.

“Why, Bill?” O’Donnell noticed that Rufus was wearing one of his more subdued neckties today. It had only three colors instead of the usual four.

“I don’t think a few of us, meeting like this, have any right to talk about a change in Pathology.” Rufus looked around at the others. “Certainly I’ve had some run-ins with Joe Pearson. I guess most of us have. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to join some hole-and-corner conspiracy to boot him out.”

O’Donnell was glad this had come up; he was ready for it. “Let me say emphatically,” he said, “there is no intention on my part or anybody else’s of—as you put it”—he glanced at Rufus—“booting Dr. Pearson out.” There was a murmur of assent.

“Look at it this way,” O’Donnell said. “There seems to be agreement that changes in Pathology are necessary. Take surgical reports alone. Every day’s delay where surgery is needed means danger to the patient. I know I don’t need to emphasize that.”

Harry Tomaselli interjected, “And don’t let us forget that these delays are tying up hospital beds we need badly. Our waiting list for admissions is still very long.”

O’Donnell took over again. “Of course, instead of handling things this way I could have called the executive committee together.” He paused. “I still will if I have to, but I think you know what might happen. Joe is a member of the executive himself and, knowing Joe as we all do, any discussion will mean a showdown. In that case, assuming we force the issue, what have we gained? We’ve proven to Joe Pearson that he’s no longer in charge of his own department. And medically, and every other way—just as Harvey said—we’ll have undermined ourselves and the hospital.” O’Donnell thought, too, of what he could not tell the others: that he was also weighing Pearson’s influence with the old guard on the hospital board and the political repercussions which a showdown might create.

“I’m not saying I go along with you, but what’s your suggestion?” The question came from Charlie Dornberger. He punctuated it with puffs of smoke as his pipe got going.

Rufus sniffed. “We’d better hurry this up. It won’t be fit to breathe in here soon. Do you import that camel dung, Charlie?”

As the others smiled, O’Donnell decided to lay it on the line. “My suggestion, Charlie, is that you approach Joe—on behalf of the rest of us.”