Not many days passed, however, before Barry Blake was actually eating steaks and calling Lieutenant Moira Stevens by her first name. He started that on the first evening that she helped him to walk from the ward to the canopied ramp that surrounded the hospital.
“Why won’t you tell me anything about Captain O’Grady?” he asked as she took the deck chair beside him. “You admitted he was sent here from the New Guinea airfield. If he’s dead, I’m well enough to stand the news without bursting a blood vessel.”
Lieutenant Stevens turned her clear, steady gaze on Barry’s face.
“You think the world of Captain O’Grady, don’t you?” she murmured. “How long did you know him before he was wounded?”
“Less than two weeks,” Barry Blake responded. “Somehow time doesn’t count much with wartime friendships. It seems as if I’d known you for months—Moira.”
A low laugh bubbled in the girl’s throat. It wasn’t a giggle—just a good-humored, friendly chuckle. Lieutenant Moira Stevens rose several points in Barry’s estimation because of it.
“I guess I can safely tell you the latest news about Captain O’Grady now,” she said, changing the subject. “I heard the doctor say this morning that he is out of danger. When you first came to your senses the captain was just hanging between life and death. If I’d told you the truth then, you might have worried yourself back into a fever.”
Barry did not speak. He gazed across the clearing at a row of tall cocoanut palms. All at once the tropical night seemed very beautiful.
“So the Old Man is here—in this hospital,” he said at last. “When do you think I might see him? I—I’d like to talk with him about Sweet Rosy O’Grady ... tell him she’s not beyond repair.”
“I’ll ask the medical officer in charge, Barry,” the girl promised, as she rose to her feet. “Come, now! It’s time you were getting to bed. Take my arm—that’s it—and we’ll go back to the ward.”