“No, garnets,” shortly. Martha’s inordinate curiosity was an unpleasant feature. “What were you doing at my door a short time ago?”
Martha’s hands twisted in and out of her apron. “I stooped down to pick up a pin and that there clumsy idiot flopped over me,” she explained in an aggrieved tone. “Had no better sense than not to look where she was going. She skeered me an’—an’—I ran downstairs.” Her tone changed. “Why didn’t you come to Mr. Paul’s funeral, Miss—Ma’am?” raising her eyes and lowering them rapidly.
Miriam paid not the slightest attention to the question. Stepping past the housekeeper she went in search of Doctor Roberts. He was sitting at the desk in the living room, going over his daybook.
“Good evening, Miss Ward,” he exclaimed as she paused in front of him. “I hope Martha did not disturb you. I told her to wait until later.”
“I was all ready to come downstairs,” she responded. “When will the new nurse be here? Or did she come with you?” glancing hopefully about.
“No.” Roberts pocketed his daybook and fountain pen. “After your message came Miss Stockton telephoned to every hospital and the Registry, and not one had a nurse on call.”
Miriam stared at him in dismay. “You couldn’t get a nurse?” she gasped.
“No, not for to-night, at least; there’s an epidemic of grippe and, therefore, a shortage of nurses.” Roberts looked at Miriam keenly. “Are you ill, Miss Ward?”
“No; that is”—her bitter disappointment was discernible in her voice. “I can’t go on, Doctor.”
Roberts rose and walked past the desk, stopping by her side. “What is it, Miss Ward?” he asked sympathetically. “What has happened since this morning?”