"No. Are you?"
A little cold sensation struck into her spine at the tone of that question.
"I haven't decided yet on my plans. Hadn't you better take Susette out to the Park?"
"All right."
"And keep her there as much as you can—till it's over."
"All right," said the nurse again.
Ethel went out of the room. Were there only strangers here?
Just after that Fanny Carr arrived, and Ethel had a feeling at once of a shrewd strong personality. A woman of about medium height, still young but rather over-developed, artificial and overdressed, with a full bust and thick red lips and lustrous eyes of greenish grey—her beauty was of the obtrusive type that is made to catch the eye on the street and in noisy crowded rooms. When Fanny kissed her, Ethel shrank. "I mustn't do that!" she exclaimed to herself. But the other woman had noticed it and shot a little look at her.
"You poor girl. I can't tell you how sorry I feel," she was saying.
"It's horrible. Tell me about it."
And Ethel in a lifeless voice recounted the tragedy of the night.