On her way down to the operating-room, she met the bearers coming up for Jaye, and told them to wait a moment, while she spoke to Mr. Brinton. She arranged this with him in a moment, and went back to the ward.
“Now they’re ready for us, Jaye,” she said, and he was lifted on to the stretcher.
“Got your girl with you, old chap,” said the man in the next bed. “Good luck.”
“Back again soon,” said Jaye cheerfully.
The operating-room was her husband’s sitting-room. The floor had been tiled, and was curved where it joined the walls, so that no angle could harbour dust. The walls had been stripped and covered with a glazed paper; in the corner was a white enamel basin with taps above it, and in the centre of the room a bed of plate-glass. By the window was a table on wheels, covered with a cloth. In front of it was Mr. Brinton, examining something beneath it. As they entered he replaced the cloth. At the head of the bed was the anæsthetist, and by him a cylinder with a pipe attached to it, communicating with a small frame lined with india-rubber. By it stood a bottle and a wire mask. A couple of nurses were in the window, talking to the doctor.
The latter came forward.
“Upon my word, here’s a spoilt fellow,” he said, “getting Lady Grote to sit by him. Now, my boy, this is much the worst moment of all, when you’ve got to lie down on that bed. After that there’s nothing to mind at all. Let’s have a feel at your pulse.”
He stood there a moment, and said in a low voice to the anæsthetist:
“A bit nervous. Send him off with gas and give ether afterwards. Now, you’ve passed the worst of it, Jaye.”
The anæsthetist took up the india-rubber mouthpiece, attached to which was a tube with a tap, that hissed as he turned it on for a moment.