Patsy considered. “Well—I’ve been taking up hospital training.”
“Oh, how splendid! Are you going over with the new Red Cross supply?”
Patsy shook her head. “You see, they only kept me until they had demonstrated all they knew about lung disorders—and fresh-air treatment, and then they dismissed me. I’m fearsome they were after finding out I hadn’t the making of a nurse.”
“That’s too bad! What are you going to do now?”
An amused little smile twitched at the corners of Patsy’s mouth; it acted as if it wanted to run loose all over her face. “Sure, I haven’t my mind made—quite. And yourself?”
“Oh—I?” Marjorie Schuyler leaned forward a trifle. “Did you know I was engaged?”
“Betrothed? Holy Saint Bridget bless ye!” And the vagabond gloves clasped the slender hands of the American prototype and gave them a hard little squeeze. “Who’s himself?”
“It’s Billy Burgeman, son of the Burgeman.”
“Old King Midas?”
“That’s a new name for him.”