She looked at me uncertainly: "Aren't you coming?"
"No," I said, "I've a note to write," forgetting that the new Sister might not allow such infringements. She gave no sign.
The V.A.D. gave in and disappeared concertwards.
The Sister rose too and went out into the kitchen to consult with the chef.
I slipped out behind her and down the steps into the garden—into the wet, dark garden, down the channels that were garden-paths, and felt my way over to the Sisters' quarters.
My Sister hadn't moved. There by the gas-fire, her thin hand to her face, she sat as she had two hours before.
"Come in," she offered, "and talk to me."
Her collar, which was open, she tried to do up. It made a painful impression on me of weakness and the effort to be normal.
I remembered that she had once told me she was so afraid of death, and I guessed that she was suffering now from that terror.
But when the specialist is afraid, what can ignorance say...?