"She could get better if she would," she said to the interne one day. The Senior was off duty and they had done the dressing together. "She just won't try."
"Perhaps she thinks it isn't worth while," replied the interne, who was drying his hands carefully while the Probationer waited for the towel.
She was a very pretty Probationer.
"She hasn't much to look forward to, you know."
The Probationer was not accustomed to discussing certain things with young men, but she had the Avenue Girl on her mind.
"She has a home—she admits it." She coloured bravely. "Why—why cannot she go back to it, even now?"
The interne poured a little rosewater and glycerine into the palm of one hand and gave the Probationer the bottle. If his fingers touched hers, she never knew it.
"Perhaps they'd not want her after—well, they'd never feel the same, likely. They'd probably prefer to think of her as dead and let it go at that. There—there doesn't seem to be any way back, you know."
He was exceedingly self-conscious.
"Then life is very cruel," said the Probationer with rather shaky lips.