“I’m so vairry sorry——” from Manon.
Deb returned to the room, closing the door. And Jenny cried:
“Little humbug! much she cares!”
“Well, nurse, shall we operate?” demanded Ames cheerily. He stood at the bedside, assuming a professional manner, one finger on the patient’s pulse. “Um. Um. This is excellent. We shall soon be all right. Up to-day and down to-morrow and dead the next day. A great improvement here, nurse. I should give her ...” he drew the pseudo-nurse aside to a little distance, dropping his voice to a grave undertone. Jenny burst out laughing at the foolery—then shuddered—and laughed again:
“Bravo! It’s the real thing. God—how often I’ve seen ’em do just that at the hospitals and nursing-homes. I’ve been turned inside out and put on the table so often, I wonder there’s any of me left kicking. Like poor old Cora over there—the doctors had all the fun, tinkering and fiddling.”
“It sounds fun, when you put it like that,” Ames said appreciatively. And drew a clumsy penknife from his pocket. “Where will you have it?” he demanded considerately, throwing off his coat and rolling up his shirt-sleeves.
“Deb! Deb!” shrieked Jenny, in hysterical appeal.
Deb flung herself to the rescue. She and the soldier sleuthed each other malevolently round the room, he with the penknife and she with the screw-driver, till they ended up with a neat little burlesque of a murder in the middle of the carpet; La llorraine, next door, supplying unconscious atmosphere by the torture scene from “Tosca.”
“Die!” said Deb lightly.
“With my fingers buried in your raven tresses!”