“I guess you’re the right sort,” he said hoarsely. “Put it there!”
He gripped the hand of the nurse as he would have done that of a man.
Afterward Ravant watched the girl as she “went about doing good” for him—as he gibed it. She tried to keep out of his vision.
“What in the devil are you about?” he commanded. “I want to look at you! It does me good—to look at you!”
She came, with a pink face, where he could see her.
“If it does you good—why, look at me!”
She tried to do it lightly—pose there—but her bosom heaved. Ravant saw this.
“‘I guess you’re the right sort,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Put it there!’”
“Yes, I’ve stopped guessing. You are the right sort—inside. And you’re not half as ugly outside as I thought you at first. Or else you’ve grown prettier. I think it’s that. I suppose they make it a point to hire only ugly girls for nurses. Else the patients would marry ’em as fast as they could gather ’em in, and there would never be any nurses. But you’ve fooled ’em! Look in the glass!”