"I'm gay enough in the wards," said Letty listlessly; "I've got to be. Can't I cry a little in my own room?"
"No, we haven't time to cry," said Ailsa decisively. "Lie down beside me and go to sleep. Flannery has promised to wake us in time for supper."
"I can't get Langley's terrible face out of my mind," whimpered Letty, cuddling close to Ailsa, as they lay in bed in the wintry darkness. "It was all drawn up on one side."
"But coma had set in," said Ailsa gently. "You know, he wasn't suffering when he died. . . . You'll write to his mother, won't you, dear? Or shall I?"
"I will. . . . She wanted to come, you remember, but she's bedridden. . . . Her only son. . . . Yes, I'll write . . . I think Peterson is going to die, next——"
"But Levy is getting well," interrupted Ailsa.
"Stop it, Letty dear! I won't let you become morbid. Think of your beautiful watch! Think of dear Dr. Benton." "I—I am," gasped Letty, and fell to crying again until she sobbed herself to sleep in Ailsa's tired arms.
Supper was spread in Dr. West's private office; Hallam had obtained leave, and Ailsa expected him; Colonel Arran was in Washington and could not come, but the company was to be a small one at best—Ailsa, Letty Lynden, Dr. West, Dr. Hammond, and Hallam were all who had been expected for Christmas Eve supper.
They waited for Hallam until Dr. West decided to wait no longer, saying that he was either stuck in the mud somewhere or had been detailed for duty unexpectedly.
So Ailsa lighted the Christmas candles, and the two young women in their fresh gray garbs, and the two civilian doctors in clean clothes, sat down before a rather thin roasted turkey. But the bird proved tender and juicy, and it was beautifully cooked; and a glass of wine sent the colour into Letty's pale cheeks, and straightened Ailsa's drooping neck.