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four.
    'I was hoping that I wouldn't have to scrub for Clay Sotheby today, now that I've been put back in this service,' one was saying, a remark that brought him to a halt. 'He did sort of embarrass me that time. I'd like my colleagues to get a chance to forget about it.'
    The speaker had a pleasant, well-modulated voice, one he recognized instantly as belonging to Sophie Dunhill, RN.
    'Oh, don't worry about him, Sophie. He's a pussycat really.' That was the voice of Rhona May, the head nurse of rooms three and four. 'I should know, I've worked with him for a long time.'
    Sophie laughed rather shortly. 'That's not how I would describe him, unless you mean a pussycat with extra big teeth and claws—and to me that's a tiger!'
    Both women laughed together softly, at his expense, while he hovered. Then the door of the prep room came swinging open suddenly and Sophie came hurrying through, almost crashing into him.
    'Oh...' She came to a halt inches from him. Dressed in a pale blue jumpsuit, which was the uniform for the registered nurses in the operating room, plus the blue paper hat which enclosed the hair and the tie-on face mask, she had taken on the usual anonymity that such gait) provided. He much preferred her in the red dress. Yet she looked slim and trim, he noted with appreciation as his eyes went over her swiftly.
    'Oh...' she said again, flustered, 'it's you, Dr Sotheby.'
    'So, I'm a tiger, am I, Ms Dunhill?' he said, shifting his weight nonchalantly onto one leg so that he could stand with one hand on his hip, blocking her way with an extended elbow. He was gratified to see that her large, expressive eyes had widened, the pupils large. So he had got some sort of reaction from the cool Sophie.
    Although she flushed, she recovered quickly. 'Well, definitely not a pussycat,' she said.
    'I can be,' Clay said. 'You just have to give me a chance.'
    'You've had plenty of chances, Dr Sotheby,' she said. 'And, anyway, eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves.' Their eyes met and he thought he could detect a glimmer of humour in hers.
    Pressing his advantage, he added, 'I definitely want you to scrub for my first case Ms Dunhill,' he said in a tone which he hoped brooked no refusal, 'for which you should be scrubbing right now if you're going to be ready on time. I know you're familiar with a gut resection, more so than with a Whipple.'
    'Yes, of course I am,' she snapped back. 'I'm quite familiar with a Whipple, too. It was just a bad day for me.'
    'I see,' he said, narrowing his eyes, trying to divine her mood. He decided to let that past lapse drop for good. 'We'll forget about that. I think you would be interested in this case, a young man who has to have a gut resection because of Crohn's disease. It's always sad at that age.'
    'Yes,' Sophie said, her interest captured. 'I was wondering why he would need a resection. At least it's better than having cancer, I think. Will he need a permanent colostomy or ileostomy?'
    'I'm hoping not,' he said, 'although I expect I'll give him a temporary one—an ileostomy—until the inflammation has settled down.' An ileostomy or colostomy, the opening of the small bowel or the large bowel, respectively, onto the surface of the abdominal skin, was difficult for a patient to live with at any age. It was even more so for a young person, for someone as yet unmarried. 'His rectum and the colon seem unaffected by the disease at the present time,' Clay added, 'so there's a good chance that we can leave those parts intact, and I can reconnect the cut ends of the gut again in a later operation when all the inflammation has died down...although that can take months.'
    'That would be good,' Sophie said. 'Crohn's is an awful thing to have, isn't it? All that chronic inflam mation, with no known cause. Imagine the pain of it, and how it must affect your life.'
    'Yes. It's been pretty debilitating for him,' Clay agreed. 'I'll see what his gut looks like when we do the laparotomy, although I have