Later, during those short respites between stages of the operation, she felt him studying her. Twice, she managed to catch him looking directly at her, but he shifted his gaze to the patient both times. Yet, she had noticed his studious regard, and the quizzical arch of his brows before he looked away. She wondered if someone else had seen her nervous clumsiness in the cafeteria, and had mentioned it to the difficult old surgeon.

When the second patient was completely under the control of the anesthetic, and Grafton began the mastectomy, she happened to look up at the small audience seated behind the glass which separated them from the sterile amphitheater of the operating room.

Paul Harshman was staring intently at the procedure, and for a brief moment before he noticed her watching him, she got the strange impression that he was morbidly relishing the way Grafton's scalpel had started to sever the breast from the young patient's torso.

But after he met her startled gaze, he seemed to change his expression to one of humorous camaraderie. When he winked at her, she forced a smile, then realized he couldn't see it behind the mask.

Quickly, she turned her head to watch the surgeon. At any time, he might finish the commentary being picked up by the overhead microphone for the instruction of the interns and other members of the viewing audience. She didn't dare be a fraction of a second late in her reaction when he called for something and held out his hand.

When the wound was dressed and the bloodied mound of creamy flesh had been covered and sent off to pathology, Pal looked up at the big window again. Paul Harshman was gone.

By the time she had finished the post-op duty and removed the bloody-sleeved surgical gown, Grafton and his assistant had left the scrub-room. While she washed up, she could hear the intern who had attended the operation – Jack something-or-other who was Grafton's current protege – talking to Matthews, the anesthetist.