“I’m afraid we can’t allow that.” The Matron smiled a superior smile. “It’s against orders.”
“Then you must disobey orders.”
“My dear Mrs. Jameson . . .” began the woman.
But at that, Patricia’s temper exploded.
“Don’t ‘dear Mrs. Jameson’ me,” she flashed out. “He may be your patient. But he’s my husband. And I’m going to see him.”
“The Registrar might let you. I can’t.”
“Then please go and fetch the Registrar.”
There appeared, after a further twenty minutes during which Patricia’s annoyance rose to fever-point, a pompous but kindly individual with drooping moustaches, who peered at her through gold pince-nez, and said:
“The Matron tells me you want to see your husband. We really oughtn’t to allow it, you know. Really, we oughtn’t. Of course, if he were in any danger, it would be a different thing.”
“It’s rather natural I should want to see him, isn’t it?”