As if she had heard him far out in the hall, the nurse opened the door and came in. It annoyed him that he could not even sigh without being watched.
“Did you call, Mr. Murray?”
“No, nurse.”
“Did you want anything, Mr. Murray?”
“Yes, I want a great many things!” he snapped unexpectedly, “I want to get up and walk around and go to my work.” He had almost said, “I want to go home,” only he remembered in time that he had no home to go to. No one to care where he went.
“I want my mail!” he added suddenly. “I think it’s time this monkey business stopped! I suppose the doctor has told you I mustn’t have my mail yet. He’s afraid there’ll be something disturbing in it. But that isn’t possible. I haven’t any near relatives left. They’re all dead. I suppose I’ve lost my job long ago, so it can’t be anything disturbing about business, and I haven’t any girl anywhere that cares a picayune about me or I about her, so you see there’s really no danger in letting me have it. In fact I will have it! I wish you would go and get it right away. Tell the doctor I demand it. There would surely be something to interest me for a few minutes and make me forget this monotonous room and the squeak of your rubber heels on the hall floor!”
He had red hair, but he had not been savage like this before. He had just reached the limit of his nerves, and he was angry at that tear. It had probably left a wide track on his cheek, and that abominable nurse, who knew everything and thought of everything and presumed to manage him, would know he had been crying like a baby. Yes, she was looking hard at him now, as if she saw it. He felt it wet and cold on his cheek where he had not wiped it off thoroughly.
The nurse came a step nearer.
“I’m real sorry about the mail,” she said sympathetically, “but your suspicions are all wrong. The doctor asked me this morning if I couldn’t find out some one to write to about your mail. There truly hasn’t been a bit of mail since you came here. And the head nurse wrote to that address you gave her, I’m sure, for I saw her addressing the letter. Isn’t it likely they have made some mistake about the address? I wouldn’t fret about it if I were you. You’ll forget it all when you get well. Wouldn’t you like me to read to you a while? There’s a real good story in the Sunday paper. I’ll get it if you want me to.”
“No, thanks!” he said curtly, “I don’t read stories in Sunday papers, and besides you can’t sugar-coat things with a story. And you’re mistaken when you say I’ll forget it. I’ll never forget it, and I’ll never get well, either! I can see that plain enough!”