The interne was pacing the roof anxiously. Golden sunset had faded to lavender—to dark purple—to night.
The Probationer came up at last—not a probationer now, of course; but she had left off her cap and was much less stately.
"I'm sorry," she explained; "but I've been terribly busy. It went off so well!"
"Of course—if you handled it."
"You know—don't you?—it was the lover who came. He looks so strong and good—oh, she is safe now!"
"That's fine!" said the interne absently. They were sitting on the parapet now and by sliding his hand along he found her fingers. "Isn't it a glorious evening?" He had the fingers pretty close by that time; and suddenly gathering them up he lifted the hand to his lips.
"Such a kind little hand!" he said over it. "Such a dear, tender little hand! My hand!" he said, rather huskily.
Down in the courtyard the Dummy sat with the parrot on his knee. At his feet the superintendent's dog lay on his side and dreamed of battle. The Dummy's eyes lingered on the scar the Avenue Girl had bandaged—how long ago!
His eyes wandered to the window with the young John among the lilies. In the stable were still the ambulance horses that talked to him without words. And he had the parrot. If he thought at all it was that his Father was good and that, after all, he was not alone. The parrot edged along his knee and eyed him with saturnine affection.