“God knows I do.”
“But not mine—?”
“Not yet, Elsie. I have not got so far as that yet.”
I did not look up, and she stood quite still over me—looking down at me—probably noting that the hair was getting a little thin on the top of my head. This is not a joke. I repeat she was probably noting that. People do note such things at such moments.
“If you do not take me,” she said, in a singularly even voice, “I shall go up to Capoo. Can you not see that that is the only thing that can save me from going to Capoo—or going mad?”
I laid aside my pen, and looked up into her face, which she made no pretence of hiding from me. And I saw that it was as she said.
“You can go to work at once,” I said, “under Mrs. Martin, in ward number four.”
When she had left me I did not go on filling in the list from the notes in my pocket-book. I fell to wasting time instead. So it was Fitz. I was not surprised, but I was very pleased. I was not surprised, because I have usually found that the better sort of woman has as keen a scent for the good men as we have. And I thought of old Fitz—the best man I ever served with—fighting up at Capoo all alone, while I fought down in the valley. There was a certain sense of companionship in the thought, though my knowledge and experience told me that our chances of meeting again were very small indeed.
We had not heard from Capoo. The conclusion was obvious: they had no one to send.
Elsie Matheson soon became a splendid nurse. She was quite fearless—not with dash, but with the steady fearlessness that comes from an ever-present sense of duty, which is the best. She was kind and tender, but she was a little absent. In spirit she was nursing at Capoo; with us she was only in the body.