“Hold on,” exclaimed Roberts, as Alan pushed back his chair, preparatory to rising. “I don’t know, Nash, how competent the country doctors are, but you can safely trust Miss Ward should another crisis arise.”
“The nurse?” The question was put by Nash with raised eyebrows, and Roberts frowned. He did not relish the clergyman’s tone.
“The nurse,” he repeated, with dry emphasis. “But for her keeping her wits about her Mrs. Nash would have died yesterday afternoon, before I could get to her.”
“What was the cause of my wife’s critical condition?” asked Nash. “You have never told me.”
“Heart collapse,” tersely. “Miss Ward’s prompt use of camphorated oil, administered hypodermically, brought her around, however, and her clever nursing has aided materially in her recovery from the attack. Come, Nash, don’t be so downhearted; you can place every confidence in Miss Ward.”
Nash laid down his napkin. “I’ll be more easy in my mind if you will return,” he admitted. “Miss Ward is undoubtedly clever, but, at that, only a nurse—”
“A damned fine looking one!” ejaculated Alan, emerging from behind a screen of tobacco smoke. “Come, Nash, why have you taken such a prejudice against her?”
Nash glanced angrily at the younger man, but refrained from a direct answer.
“Suppose we drop the discussion,” he said. “I will be greatly obliged, Roberts, if you will promise to get back later to-day.”
“I will try,” was Roberts’ noncommittal reply. “It depends upon how I find my patients and my assistant’s report whether I can spend to-night here. I will run up now and see Mrs. Nash,” and not waiting to hear anything further, he left the dining room.