“You are very kind,” said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner to make the doctor conscious of his tone, “but I am going with friends.”
“Friends?” inquired the doctor. “And who, may I ask?” There was an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the more sweetly.
“Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital.”
“Nurse Robertson?” said Bulling. “Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a saint, isn't she?”
“A saint?” cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her voice. “Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and jolliest girl I know.”
“I should hardly have called her jolly,” said the doctor, with an air of dismissing her.
“Oh, she is!” cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager enthusiasm. “You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most wonderful way. Looked after me, too.”
“Poor girl!” murmured the doctor. “She had a handful, sure enough.”
“Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country, and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife.”
“And put the girl's nose out of joint,” said the doctor.