It was a jagged business – wild peaks of expectation followed by wilder plunges of despair. Stung by a consciousness of three successive failures – at least so he construed his departures from Drineffy, Aberalaw and the MFB – Andrew longed to vindicate himself at last. But their total capital, increased by stringent saving during the last months of salaried security, was no more than six hundred pounds. Though they haunted the medical agencies and reached for every opportunity offered in the columns of the Lancet it appeared that this sum was scarcely adequate as purchase money for a London practice. They never forgot their first interview. Doctor Brent, of Cadogan Gardens, was retiring, and he offered a nice nucleus suitable for a well-qualified gentleman. It seemed, on the face of it, an admirable chance. An extravagant taxi, for fear that someone speedier might snatch the plum, rushed them to Doctor Brent whom they found to be a white haired, pleasant, almost demure little man.
