"Say, can't you tell me what sort of a looking dub he is?"
"A what? Most of the time you seem to speak Welsh."
"How are you so cock-sure his name is George Marshall?"
"How do I? Well! well!"
"Why, look here! Isn't it natural for me to ask about him? Didn't we pass through almost the same experience? Why, I am simply bound to know that fellow, that's all there is about it."
"Tut, tut! Certainly you shall know him. But not now, when you are too weak to walk and he is suffering even more pain. Rest easy, now; be as calm as you can and soon you and the other patient may talk it all over together."
"Say, haven't you seen anybody around his room coming to see him?"
"Um! Let me think." And she knitted her brows and shaped that small mouth to a Cupid's bow, whence many an arrow has shot through me. "Why, I can't say." And she smiled teasingly.
"Come, you must have some idea. How far from here is his room?"
"Why, yes; I do remember seeing some one there a few times. It was his little girl."