o of this workshop. It was a room built on at the back of the house,
where light and quiet were assured. To the front of this were the
waiting-rooms for the patients, and at the front of the house, the
Doctor's office. Simple and sound and always of the best quality, would
serve as a description of the furnishings; there was a striking
similarity between these and the advice that a patient was sure to
receive.

Several days went by without seeing much of the Doctor beyond saying
"good-morning," but no time went by without feeling that force in the
farther office. It seemed to shape itself into one's work, into one's
results. One was not told to do his best--it would not have been
necessary; somehow, one did it.

One day about noon, word came from the Doctor asking me to lunch with
him upstairs after the morning's work was finished, which was usually
half-past one. We sat down to table together, his family being away for
the summer, and luncheon was served. I waited quietly to hear what the
Doctor wished to speak with me about, but as he said nothing, we ate on
in silence until the end of the meal. When we rose to leave the table,
the Doctor turned to me and in his blunt way said: "Better have your
lunch here every day." As he hurried off to keep an appointment, the
suspicion fell across my mind that perhaps he had surmised that my
pocketbook would be better for this little noonday rest he was
suggesting; but quite apart from that, I was more than glad to have this
extra opportunity of being with him and of learning from him.

For some little time we met daily at lunch without the conversation
getting much above the level of the small civilities incident to eating,
when one day it suddenly came over me that I was not making the best of
my opportunities. But Dr. Janeway was a man of very few words. Through
doing, not talking, had he risen to his reputation--to his results. How
was I to begin? How was I to gain his interest? Surely not by airing
that new and conventional structure of scanty knowledge the medical
school had so recently assisted me in setting up in my mind, its
storerooms so empty of experience, its machinery still rigid for want
of real use. No, I did not mean to burden him by trying to open the
ball of intercourse in that direction. And yet, if somehow we could only
get on some common ground, and I could commence to learn something from
his rich experience; if, somehow, I could get by my diffidence of na