Miss Kexter’s common face expanded into a grin.
“Shut up, Standish,” she begged, “or you’ll bust a lung.”
Rose didn’t wait to simmer down. She hushed immediately. She had, for the moment, forgotten she was ill.
The woman with the pendulous breasts swayed forward and said, “Let a fellow in on the joke, sister.”
But Mrs. Witherspoon’s raucous voice demanded, “Tend to me, Miss Kexter. A pan, quick!” And as she ran from the ward Miss Kexter turned and ordered, “Don’t talk to Miss Standish, now. She’s got to be quiet.”
Rose turned upon her side and looked out of the window. She put her thin little face against her flattened hands and lay completely still. That laugh had made her realize how tired she really was, and how silly she had been to let the superstitions of these women frighten her. What she needed was a nap and then she’d be all right. She closed her lovely eyes and snuggled into the pillows.
It wasn’t coming to the ward that had made her so awfully tired, but remembering all ... all everything ... about Tony again. For two years, now, she had taught her mind to close up as suddenly as a four-o’clock when she began to remember. Remembering was no good, it only made you ache in your back and sting behind your eyes.
Still if she was afraid again, it wouldn’t hurt to make believe. Make believe, as she used to do when she first knew Tony and wished she could get sick and nearly die and have pneumonia, and heart trouble and ... and then she smiled to herself at the funny child she had been. If she had ever come down with a combination of any two of the diseases she had desired in trios and quartettes, she would have never recovered ... and the object of those imaginary illnesses had always been to get well and marry Tony!
She was aroused from her reverie by a student nurse saying, “Miss Standish, are you ready to wash? Here’s your basin.”
She looked at her watch and smiled at the child.