From her voice and her look you gathered that she was in charge of a hospital and was obtaining indispensable clinical data.
“Madam,” said Jemingham, very coldly indeed, “you talk like the census man. Would you also like to know my age, sex, and color?”
“We never,” retorted Mrs. Morris, imperturbably, “do business with strangers.”
“Do you want me to get a letter from the President of the United States? I know him pretty well. Or from my bankers? They are known even in Brooklyn.”
“We are here to supply trained nurses to people whose physicians we know.”
A trained nurse must have unfailing good humor—it is part of her professional requirements. But a purveyor of trained nurses may permit herself much dignity, as though her mission in life consisted, of fitting nurses to cases—the best nurse for the worst case.
“My doctor,” said Jerningham, “is Dr. Jewett.” It was the name of a very great surgeon.
“Ah, yes. Surgical case! Yes! I have Miss Sennett and Miss Audrey. Dr. Jewett knows them very well.”
“Kindly wait a second! I must see them myself. And it is not a surgical case. It is no case at all—yet. Show me the girls!”
“Sir, this is not an intelligence-office; but—”