The President laid the letter behind him on the desk, while the entire board gasped in amazement.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" muttered the Disagreeable Trustee.
"But just think of her—writing it!" burst forth the Oldest Trustee.
The Meanest Trustee barked out an exclamation, but nothing followed it; undoubtedly that was due to the President's interrupting:
"I think if we had received this yesterday we should have been very—exceedingly—indignant; we should have censured the writer severely. As it is—hmm—" The President stopped short; it was as if his mind had refused to tabulate his feelings.
"As it is"—the Executive Trustee took up the dropped thread and went on—"we have decided to reconsider the removal of the incurable ward without any—preaching—or priming of conscience."
"I am so glad we really had changed our minds first. I should so hate to have that insignificant little woman think that we were influenced by anything she might write. Wouldn't you?" And the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee dimpled ravishingly at the Senior Surgeon.
"Wouldn't you two like to go into the consulting-room and talk it over? We could settle the business in hand, this time, without your assistance, I think." The voice of the Disagreeable Trustee dripped sarcasm.
"I should suggest," said the President, returning to the business of the meeting, "that the ward might be continued for the present, until we investigate the home condition of the patients and understand perhaps a little more thoroughly just what they need, and where they can be made most—comfortable."
"And retain Margaret MacLean in charge?" The Meanest Trustee gave it the form of a question, but his manner implied the statement of a disagreeable fact.