“Where did you ever smoke them?” she asked the Rat.
“Over to th' S'maritan.”
“Do they serve cigarettes in the hospital?”
“They do—I don't think! It was a little lady there give'em to me on the quiet. She seen what them big stiffs o' doctors never seen, that I was goin' batty for a smoke. She sneaked'em in to me. She was one real baby! Some guy outside useter send'em in to her to give me.”
“Was she a nurse?”
“No; a case. Pretty near all in when she came. After she got well nobody wanted her to leave; and she didn't want to, I guess. So they made a job for her. I useter tell her she was hired out for sunshine. I ain't seen her since.” He sighed.
“Would you like to see her?”
Pinney the Rat's eyes became human. “Oh, Gee!” he murmured.
“I'll bring her,” said the Bonnie Lassie. “Whom shall I ask for?”
“Jus' leave word for Miss Tony that Pin—that No. 7, Men's Surgical—is hurted again, but O. K., and could she come and see him, maybe, some day.” She came at once, Pinney the Rat's Miss Tony. She was little and quick and brown and lovely, but not laughing. There was a depth of woe and loss in her big eyes. Let that be my excuse that I did not at once identify her as Eurydice—that and the fact that, as far as I knew, Eurydice was dead and buried these four months and lived only in Orpheus's resolutely self-deluded mind.