“Dr. Ashley Densley has arranged all that. I’m going to a convalescent home.”
“Oh, that’s very nice.”
“Poor Dr. Ashley Densley, he was dreadfully upset.”
“You’ve had some letters to cheer you up.” Miriam spoke impatiently, her eyes rooted on the pale leisurely hands mechanically adjusting some neatly arranged papers.
“No de-er. My friends have all left me to look after myself this time but since I’ve been sitting up, I’ve been trying to get my affairs in order.”
“I thought of bringing you some flowers but there was not a single shop between here and Wimpole Street.”
“There’s generally women selling them outside. But I’m glad you didn’t; I’ve too much sympathy with the poor nurses.”
Miriam glanced fearfully about. There were so many beds with forms seated and lying upon them ... but there seemed no illness or pain. Quiet eyes met hers; everything seemed serene; there was no sound but the strange silent noise of the sunlight and the flowers. Half way down the ward stood a large three-fold screen covered with dark American cloth.
“She’s unconscious today,” said Miss Dear; “she won’t last through the night.”
“Do you mean to say there is someone dying there?”