“You don’t care whether I live or die, do you?” asked Ravant, odiously.
“Oh, quite as much as you do!” answered the doctor, with a certain jolly contempt for such a man. Then, to the nurse:
“I don’t think it will be necessary for me to see your patient again. Take care that he gets all he needs. My original instructions will do till he is discharged.”
“You don’t care either,” challenged Ravant, when the doctor had gone.
“Yes—I care—very much,” said the brave little nurse.
Ravant stared, then said:
“Well—hurry that whiskey here!”
And, presently, she brought it. Ravant saw only the hand which offered it to his famished soul. It trembled. As he took the glass he followed the arm up to the nurse’s face. That was very pale. When she was certain that he would drink it, she gasped and then choked down a bit of a sob.
“Now, what’s the matter with you?” cried Ravant, with brutal irritation.
“Noth—nothing,” faltered the nurse.