"As in the case of many other maladies, we have as yet been unable to discover the microbe of woman's inhumanity to woman," I observed.
"When doggies meet they commonly growl," said Dora, "and when pussies meet they usually spit and scratch. Each according to his or her nature. And it seems to me that you could afford a new overcoat. That one is positively becoming green."
"I do believe I have another one, somewhere," I admitted.
"Then go and find it," she commanded. "You need some one to look after you."
I turned on her like the proverbial flash, or perhaps like the
Downtrodden worm.
"Isn't that just what I've been gnashing my teeth over?" I asked. "I'm glad you have the grace to admit it."
"I'll admit anything you like," she said. "But, John dear, we can't really be sure yet that I'm the one who ought to do it. And—and maybe there will be no room at the tables unless we hurry a little."
She was buttoning up her gloves again, quite coolly, and cast approving glances at some radiographic prints on my wall.
"That must have been a splendid fracture," she commented.
"You are a few million years old in the ways of Eve," I told her, "but you are still young in the practice of trained nursing. To you broken legs and, perhaps, broken hearts, are as yet but interesting cases."