"Yes, sir," faltered the White Linen Nurse.
All the storm and passion died suddenly from her, leaving her just a frightened girl again, flushing pink-white, pink-white, pink-white, before the Senior Surgeon's scathing stare. One step, two steps, three, she advanced towards him.
"Oh, I mean, sir," she whispered, "oh, I mean, sir,—that I'm just an ordinary, ignorant country girl and you—are further above me than the moon from the sea! I couldn't expect you to—love me, sir! I couldn't even dream of your loving me! But I do think you might like me just a little bit with your heart!"
"What?" flushed the Senior Surgeon. "What?"
Whacketty-bang against the window pane sounded the Little Crippled
Girl's knuckled fists! Darkly against the window pane squashed the
Little Crippled Girl's staring face.
"Father!" screamed the shrill voice. "Father! There's a white lady here with two black ladies washing the breakfast dishes! Is it Aunt Agnes?"
With a totally unexpected laugh, with a totally unexpected desire to laugh, the Senior Surgeon strode across the room and unlocked his door. Even then his lips against the White Linen Nurse's ear made just a whisper, not a kiss.
"God bless you!—hurry!" he said. "And let's get out of here before any telephone message catches me!"
Then almost calmly he walked out on the piazza, and greeted his sister-in-law.
"Hello, Agnes!" he said.