"Why not?" demanded the Senior Surgeon with a rather noisy click of his glove fasteners.
"Because—my—face—is—tired," said the girl quite simply.
The explosive wrath on the Senior Surgeon's countenance seemed to be directed suddenly at the Superintendent.
"Is this an afternoon tea?" he asked tartly. "With six major operations this morning and a probable meningitis diagnosis ahead of me this afternoon I think I might be spared the babblings of an hysterical nurse!" Casually over his shoulder he nodded at the girl. "You're a fool!" he said, and started for the door.
Just on the threshold he turned abruptly and looked back. His forehead was furrowed like a corduroy road and the one rampant question in his mind at the moment seemed to be mired hopelessly between his bushy eyebrows.
"Lord!" he exclaimed a bit flounderingly. "Are you the nurse that helped me last week on that fractured skull?"
"Yes, sir," said Rae Malgregor.
Jerkily the Senior Surgeon retraced his footsteps into the office and stood facing her as though with some really terrible accusation.
"And the freak abdominal?" he quizzed sharply. "Was it you who threaded that needle for me so blamed slowly—and calmly—and surely, while all the rest of us were jumping up and down and cursing you—for no brighter reason than that we couldn't have threaded it ourselves if we'd had all eternity before us and—all creation bleeding to death?"
"Y-e-s, sir," said Rae Malgregor.