“I do not know what you call good then; I can not tell you what I think.”
May’s voice faltered a little when she said this, and Webster’s self-imposed reserve perhaps might have broken down, but just at this moment Doctor Brentwood entered the room, as it was in his sitting-room that the interview between May and Webster was taking place. Indeed, it must be admitted that “Mrs. Church” was treated with some favoritism by the house surgeon; and there were some plain nurses and some plain probationers who made their private comments and remarks on this fact. But May was so gentle and unassuming that as a rule she disarmed criticism.
“It’s her pretty face,” they said, shrugging their shoulders; “well, men are all alike.”
And her pretty face had no doubt a great deal to do with it, and her pretty manner, and her sad, sweet smile. Doctor Brentwood openly said to Webster she was too handsome for a nurse, but he knew, as all men who looked at her knew, that she never sought or desired attention or admiration of any kind.
And so the quiet, dreary months drifted away, and May stayed on at St. Phillip’s Hospital, and only Ralph Webster knew that she lived there. Of John Temple, Webster heard nothing, except that one day, when Christmas was past and gone, he accidentally met Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, who told him smilingly that he had had a visit from the actress, Miss Kathleen Weir.
“She had heard somehow,” he said, “that Mr. John Temple is now heir to his uncle’s estates, and she therefore wished her allowance increased. But I put her off, my dear sir, I put her off; quite time enough when Mr. John Temple does succeed.”
“And where is Mr. John Temple now?” asked Webster.
“He is abroad; he went abroad shortly after I had the visit from Miss Kathleen Weir, and he looks shockingly ill; really shockingly. I wish, I am sure, he may live to come into his inheritance.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“He used to be a remarkably nice fellow; pleasant, and rather philosophical in fact. But when I saw him last he had a most shattered appearance, like a man who had gone through some great mental strain, or bodily illness. I fancy, you know, Mr. Webster,” added the little man, shaking his head, “that that early and unfortunate marriage of his has been a most tremendous worry to him. At least when I mentioned Miss Weir having called at my offices he scowled, and muttered something about wishing he had never seen her face. He may, you see, now want to form a more reasonable marriage, but there is this millstone—a handsome enough millstone though, ha, ha, ha! hanging about his neck.”