“Do you wish the doctor, sir?”
“No.... No!... Don’t call him; do you hear?”
“I won’t call him, sir.”
“No, don’t call him.”
“No, sir.... Mr. Neeland, there is a—a trained nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir?”
Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland’s face.
“Did she come for—her handkerchief?”
There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the nurse’s dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.
“You shan’t be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?” repeated the steward, not shifting his gaze.
“Yes; I think I shall want her—for a little while.”... Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: “How are you, Scheherazade?” he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort: “Miss White and I are—old friends.... However—kindly remain outside—my door.... And throw what remains of my dinner—out of—the port.... And be ready—at all times—to look after the—gentleman on crutches.... I’m—fond of him.... Thank you, steward.”