"I had a similar accident once," he said. His voice, she noticed now, was pleasantly modulated, even though there was a steely tone underlying the more gentle sound. "I was wearing tropical whites. It was at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. Not only was I embarrassed, but when I stood up I had the horribly strange feeling that I had been castrated. It was a hell of a psychological shock for a few moments, until I pulled myself together."

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," she told him, amazed at the casual way he discussed such sexually anatomical matters with a stranger of the opposite sex. It made her wonder if he really was a medical man, after all. Laymen usually thought nurses were immune to embarrassment at such matters.

"The memory of my own experience made me more than eager to lie of whatever help I could," he replied. "If only as moral support."

"I'm very grateful, Doctor…"

"Harshman," he supplied. "Paul Harshman. With one 'N' only. And you're…?" one almost-satanic brow arched quizzically at her.

"Pal Weston," she replied. "It's Palmyra, but only my mother uses the full name, especially when I've done something to upset her."

"Do you do that often, Pal?" he wanted to know.

"Heavens, no!" she protested. "I'm usually not clumsy at all. This is the first time I've ever spilled anything at the table since I was a kid."

"That's not what I meant, Pal," he said, chuckling softly. "I wondered if you often did things to upset your mother."

"Oh!" her laughter joined in, and their eyes met in mutual warmth for a brief moment. Then she quieted as she remembered that Grafton was only a few yards away. "I hope you won't tell Dr. Grafton how fumbled-fingered I was. I'm on his surgery team this afternoon."