It was Princeton Peters who escorted her to the chair beside Dr. MacArthur’s and Dr. Hoffbein who would have liked to question her, had he not felt Dr. Harrison’s eyes judging his every thought; so Dr. MacArthur turned to her and said:
“You have been through another dreadful night. I’m sorry. Please tell about it carefully.”
She sat as she had sat yesterday, her hands primly in her lap and her flat feet carefully together, her stubborn defiance breaking through her voice.
She looked carefully around the large room before she began to speak, and to Dr. MacArthur, Dr. Harrison, and Dr. Barton, there flashed a realization that her eyes were still too close together, and that somehow she was enjoying her importance.
But her survey did not escape Dr. Harrison.
He barked, “Dr. Sterling is not here because his father is desperately ill. Will you be so kind as to tell your story, now?”
“Yes, Dr. Harrison, I will.” The stupid definiteness in her voice was maddening. She turned her eyes upon Dr. Hoffbein and told her story to him. She said:
“When I went on duty at nine I found Miss Standish a patient in Bed 11, Ward B. She said Dr. Sterling thought she might have a tubercular effusion and she was in for observation. I gave her her thermometer and ran to close the windows as the rain had started.”
“And when the lights went out, you were standing by her bed, Miss Kerr,” Dr. Barton announced pointedly.
Her eyes did not leave Dr. Hoffbein, and she replied: