“Don’t be silly, girlie. You couldn’t kill a flea, let alone a man. Accidents will happen. We get hundreds of such cases every month.”
“You don’t get motorcyclists though. They are injured while riding at fearful speed.”
“Oh yes, we do. I don’t mean to criticise your friend but most motorcyclists are dreadfully reckless.”
“He isn’t my friend. I told you that I don’t know him,” grieved Virginia.
“Why worry so, then? I heard the doctor say that it was not a serious case myself.”
“He was concealing something. Anyway, it is wrong of us to say unkind things about the poor fellow when he has no friends to help him,” Virginia concluded with a note of defiance.
“Have we?” the nurse responded, “I think that I said,–you may remember–that motorcyclists are reckless.”
“But,” sobbed the unhappy girl, “I thought it, too.”
“He wouldn’t care about it, anyway,” argued the nurse soothingly. “Cheer up, he’ll soon be well. I never remember a motorcyclist dying in this hospital. They are either killed outright,” she explained in a matter of fact tone, “or they soon recover. They have so many accidents learning to ride, I suppose, that they get toughened. I don’t mean that they are tough fellows,” she explained hastily, fearful that Virginia might deem the remark unkind. “I mean that one must be young, and strong, and hard, to run one of the things.”
Virginia’s tears had ceased to flow. “I should think that a motorcyclist would have to be–quick–and graceful,” she interrupted, and then ended, “–and very brave,” being, evidently much uplifted by the nurse’s remarks.