The interne plodded helplessly off the ward. He thought the student nurse’s haughtiness was aimed at him.
Cub Sterling entered Room Two, pulled down the window shade of the glass inset opening onto the ward, and snapped on the wall light over the bed.
Then he gripped the bedside table and stared. Among the pillows, eyes wide with amusement, a wispy smile tracing the pale lips, was the head he had held in his hands three hours ago, alive, alert, intelligently vivid.
It was as though Cleopatra’s understanding had flowed into an Egyptian mask.
The lips moved slowly and she asked, in a monotone:
“Who are you? And where am I?”
“I’m the man who knows your father, and you are in my hospital.”
The composure ran out of her face. She muttered:
“Don’t be funny, please. My father died in the War.”
Cub Sterling straightened a pillow, slowly.