“The proper sort of woman does not want any rights. She values her charms infinitely higher than all the rights that can be given her.”
“That must be exceedingly pleasant for the women who are born charming. But I insist that a sensible woman should value the attainable more than the unattainable. Charm is unattainable by any conscious process. The woman born without it had better make few claims if, to use a commercial metaphor, she wants her drafts honored. There is nothing for her to do but philosophically to make the best of the situation, and to accept those things which are the commonly admitted rights of her sex.”
“Ah! you reason so clearly and practically. But don’t be a philosopher. Don’t let philosophy creep upon you. Resist it. You know the quotation, I am sure, ‘That unloveliest of things in women, a philosopher.’”
He set the glass to his lips, so that he did not see how she paled under the thrust, nor how one hand went to her throat quickly as if a sudden pain had gripped her. When he had finished drinking and had set the empty glass upon her tray, she switched off the light without her usual “good-night,” and left him.
“Nurse—Miss Ponsonby,” said a small voice in the gloom, a most abject voice to issue from six feet of recumbent manhood, “won’t you come here a minute?”
Miss Ponsonby paused, but did not look back. “Are you awake?” she inquired evenly. “I thought you were asleep hours ago. You must be dreadfully tired. The attendant is here now, the one who handles you so nicely. I will send him to you immediately.”
A man cannot lie in the dark and cry for a nurse who will not come. Collingwood submitted, though fear had taken possession of him. His late audacity seemed madness.
The night wore on. Clouds obscured the sky, and a hot, choking darkness blocked the windows, with solid blackness. The sounds of traffic grew intermittent. Occasionally a carriage went past, full of drunken soldiers or marines, shouting and singing. Once the ambulance went out and came back with an emergency case.
Collingwood’s bed commanded the door which opened into the main ward, so that he had a perfect view of Miss Ponsonby, sitting at her desk and working at her report. A thick green shade cut the light from the room, but centred it like a halo around her shapely head.
By and by, though her features were composed, the watcher saw a glisten of light which flashed at recurrent intervals as a tear dropped downward. The sight filled him with repentance and perplexity. He associated the tears, though he could not tell why, with his stolen kiss. He had kissed more young women in his life than he had energy at that moment to remember; and no one before had felt his caresses a reasonable pretext for weeping. Here again was that mysterious goodness mixing up a situation which ought to have been simple as day, and yet he was glad that it was there to mix.