Barbara divined the malice beneath Steptoe’s indications, as he conducted her upstairs. “That was the lyte Mrs. Allerton’s room; that’s the front spare room; and that’s our present madam’s room—when she’s ’ere—heach with its barth. I’m sure if Miss Walbrook was inclined to use the front spare room I’d be entirely 333 welcome, and ’ave put in clean towels, and everythink, a-purpose.”
When Rash’s door was pointed out to her she tapped. Miss Gallifer opened it, receiving her colleague with a great big hearty smile. Great, big, and hearty were the traits by which Miss Gallifer was known among the doctors. Healthy, skilful, jolly, and offhand, she carried the issues of life and death, in which she was at home, with a lightness which made her easy to work with. Some nurses would have resented the intrusion of an outsider—professionally speaking—like Miss Walbrook; but to Miss Gallifer it was the more the merrier, even in the sickroom. The very fact of coming to close quarters with the type she knew as a “society girl” added spice to the association.
For the first few seconds Barbara found her breeziness a shock. She had expected something subdued, hushed, funereal. Miss Gallifer hardly lowered her voice, which was naturally loud, or quieted her manner, which, when off duty, could be boisterous. It was not boisterous now, of course; only quick, free, spontaneous. Then Barbara saw the reason.
There was no need to lower the voice or quiet the manner or soften the swish of rustling to and fro, in presence of that still white form composed in the very attitude of death. If Barbara hadn’t known he was alive she wouldn’t have supposed it. She had seen dead men before—her father, two brothers, other relatives. They looked like this; this looked like them. She said this to herself, and not he, because it seemed the word.
But by the time she had moved forward and was standing by the bed Miss Gallifer’s businesslike tone became a comfort. You couldn’t take such a tone if you thought there was danger; and in spite of the hemming and hawing of the doctors Miss Gallifer didn’t think there was.
“Oh, I’ve seen lots of such cases, and I say it’s a simple concussion. Old Wisdom, he doesn’t know anything. I wouldn’t consult him about an accident to a cat. Laceration of the brain is always his first diagnosis; and if the patient didn’t have it he’d get it to him before he’d admit that he was wrong.”
Barbara put the question in which all her other questions were enfolded. “Then you think he’ll get better?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Would you be surprised—the other way?”