She was now studying the four other girls, too interested to be annoyed by their manners, and yet conscious of the antagonism that they seemed to feel.
However, the four English girls were not in the least alike, which was one reason for their attitude. Two of them appeared in awe of the third, while the fourth girl silently watched the others. The most important girl was extremely tall, had fair hair, a large nose and a lovely English complexion. She was the Honorable Dorothy Mathers. The second was the daughter of a farmer, healthy and in a way handsome. If strength alone counted she would be the best of the nurses. Her name was Mary Brinton and she spoke with a broad Yorkshire dialect, but hardly said anything except “My Lady this, and my Lady that” and was evidently not accustomed to titled society. The third girl was from London, a doctor’s daughter and a friend of Lady Dorothy’s, Daisy Redmond, while the fourth, whose name was Alexina McIntyre, had given no clue to her history.
However, she it was who finally forced the group of eight girls to betray a mild human interest in one another.
She had reddish hair, freckles on her nose, wore glasses, had a delightful mouth, large, with fine white teeth.
She happened to be gazing directly at Barbara when she first spoke, but her voice was uncommonly loud, so that it forced everybody’s attention.
“Please, you little wee thing,” she said, “tell us whatever made you come over the ocean to help with our war nursing? Did you think we hadn’t enough nurses of our own, that we needed babies like you?”
Barbara stiffened. She had half an idea of declaring that she for one intended going back home at once. Then to her relief she discovered that her questioner had not intended being unkind. There was a sudden twinkle in her light-blue eyes, as if she had become aware of the discomfort in the atmosphere and wished to relieve it by a frivolous speech.
“I’m Scotch,” she added with a charming burr in her accent. “I said that to wake you up.”
Then Barbara smiled back again and afterwards sighed, “Oh, I am used to having that remark made to me.” She looked steadfastly across the space of carpet dividing the eight girls. “The sheep from the goats,” she thought to herself. Aloud she merely said:
“I hope with all my heart that in spite of my being so small you are going to find me, and indeed all of us, useful. If you don’t, you know, we can go back. But we used to have a saying in our hospital, out in Nebraska, that sometimes brains succeed best in nursing as in other things, rather than brawn.”