"Master wished me to ask you if you'd mind telephoning to the hospital, 'm," said Elsie, after she had given some details.
"Of course I will. With the greatest pleasure."
Mrs. Belrose grabbed at the tattered telephone-book, and whetting her greasy thumb whipped over the pages rapidly.
"Where's them Saints now? Oh! 'Saintsbury's.' 'Saint.' 'St. Bartholomew's Football and Cricket Ground.' I expect that's for the doctors and students. 'St. Bartholomew's Hospital.' This is it. Here we are. City 510.... Oh, dear! oh, dear! 'No telephone information given respecting patients.' Oh, dear, oh, dear!" She looked at Elsie. "Never mind," she went on brightly. "We can get over that, I should think."
She obtained the number and got into communication with the reception office of the hospital.
"I want you to be kind enough to give a message to Mrs. Violet Earlforward from her husband. She's in your hospital for an operation.... Oh, but you must, please. He's very ill. But he's a bit better, and it will do Mrs. Earlforward ever so much good to know.... Oh, please! Yes, I know, but they can't send anyone down. Oh, you don't count rules when it's urgent. It might be life and death. But you can telephone up to the ward. You're starred, so you must have a private exchange. Oh, yes. To oblige. Yes, Earlforward, Violet. And you might just ask how she is while you're about it. You are good."
She held the line and waited, sitting down on a chair to rest herself. And to Elsie:
"They're very nice, really, at those hospitals, once you get on the right side of them. I suppose you've got about all you can do?"
"Well, there isn't much nursing, and the shop's closed."
"Oh, yes, and the Steps do look so queer with it closed. Somehow it makes it look like Sunday. Doctor has been to-day, I suppose?"