"We might graft a bit on this shoulder," the surgeon suggested, "and so leave a less puckered scar. But the wound heals nicely. Hum!"
"'Hum!' it is, Doc," quoted Sanderson with a grin. "That would keep me here longer, wouldn't it?"
"Yes."
"And I've been here too long already. It is now a month. The other boys must have sailed. I guess we'll let it go as it lies, Doc. I shall not dress décolleté, so the scar won't show," and he grinned again.
He noted how this stern and rather sour-visaged surgeon treated the nurse. It was with a measure of familiarity that seemed to betray an association beyond daily intercourse in the wards of the hospital. The nurse seldom spoke to the Herr Doktor; but the latter watched her continually, and Sanderson was troubled in his mind.
Belinda Melnotte was the most companionable of nurses—bright, joyous, kind. When she was alone with him, or if the matron or other nurses or members of the medical staff were in the room, she was the life of the company. But upon the entrance of Doctor Herschall she changed. She seemed to droop, or close within herself. She listened to the Herr Doktor respectfully, and had nothing to say to the patient. The latter grew more and more puzzled.
"How came you to take up nursing, Miss Melnotte?" he asked her one day.
"Because I had nursed my father so long that, when he died, I was lonely with nothing in particular to do. Besides, one must have some occupation. Why did you take up aviation, Mr. Sanderson?"
"For somewhat the same reason," he said, smiling. "One must have some occupation, as you say. But going up in the air—and falling down again—seems to me a more exciting way of passing the time than this," and his gesture included the almost bare and rather cheerless room.
"Ah, but we nurses live the other side of it," and she laughed. "We do not suffer the pain, or live altogether within these sanitary and immaculate walls."