“I don’t know,” said the woman querulously. “It’s very horrid lying here listening to other people complaining and saying how bad they are, and no one near who knows you.”
“Come, come,” said the nurse gently, “you are hot and tired. I have brought you some flowers and fruit. There!”
She placed a bunch of roses in the patient’s hand, and placed a bunch of large grapes before her on the bed.
“Thanky,” said the woman, ungraciously, as she sniffed at the flowers. “But they’re not very fresh.”
“No,” said the nurse, smiling; “but you must recollect that they had to be cut in the country and sent up by rail. Try a few of the grapes.”
She held up a little tray, and the patient picked one or two grapes off the bunch with an indifferent air.
“Not much of grapes,” she said. “You should see them in the vineries at Hightoft. Much nicer than these poor tasteless things.”
“I am sorry they’re not better, Maria,” said the nurse with a pitying smile. “They were the best I could get. You must remember we are in London.”
“Oh, yes; it isn’t your fault, nurse. You can’t help it.”
“Eat a few more.”