Just as Bruce was about to say more, a sudden knock interrupted him.
Knock, knock, knock.
The study door opened, and Alfred entered, pushing a brass tea trolley.
The old butler paid no heed to the oppressive atmosphere in the room. With elegant movements, he set two bone china teacups on the desk.
"Fine English black tea, Master Bruce. A remedy for your temper, which has lately been hot enough to burn through the manor's roof." Alfred poured the tea and slid one cup toward Bruce.
Then he took out a glass, filled that as well, and placed it before Yang Ming.
"Your tea, Doctor Yang. I hope the young master's crude hospitality hasn't spoiled your mood."
"Mr. Pennyworth's tea smells wonderful." Yang Ming lifted the warm water and took a sip. "Master Wayne is simply curious about medical theory. We've had a very pleasant discussion."
Alfred bowed slightly and wheeled the trolley aside, showing no intention of leaving.
Bruce looked at the steaming cup of black tea before him without touching it, then raised his eyes to Yang Ming.
"You're a realist through and through," Bruce declared.
"I'm a doctor. I'm only responsible for the living," Yang Ming answered crisply.
"Falcone paid his medical fees. Keeping him alive serves my current interests, as well as Gotham's present need for stability. That's why I was in his study."
"If you think that offends your obsession with moral purity, you can throw me out of the manor right now. But I'm not refunding the house-call fee." Yang Ming wore an infuriating look that all but said, What are you going to do about it?
Bruce leaned back in his swivel chair, his hands clasped over his abdomen. As he studied Yang Ming, some of the hostility in his eyes gave way