"Tell me about the hospital," Alicia said presently.
"Ah, the hospital!" Hilda's face changed. There came into her eyes the moved look that always waked a thrill in Alicia Livingstone, as if she were suddenly aware that she had stepped upon ground where feet like hers passed seldom.
"There is nothing to tell you that is not—sad. Such odds and ends of life, thrown together!"
"Have you had any experiences yet?"
Hilda stared for a moment absently in front of her, and then turned her head aside to answer as if she closed her eyes on something.
"Experiences? Delightful Alicia, speaking your language, no. You are thinking of the resident surgeon, the medical student, the interesting patient. My resident surgeon is fifty years old; the medical student is a Bengali in white cotton and patent-leather shoes. I am occupied in a ward full of deck hands. For these I hold the bandage and the basin; they are hardly aware of me."
"You are sure to have them," Alicia said. "They crop up wherever you go in this world, either before you or behind you."
Hilda fixed her eyes attentively upon her companion. "Sometimes," she said, "you say things that are extremely true in their general bearing. A fortune-teller with cards gives one the same shock of surprise. Well, let me tell you, I have been promoted to temperatures. I took thirty-five to-day. Next week I am to make poultices; the week after baths and fomentations."
"What are the others like—the other novices?"
"Nearly all Eurasians, one native, a Hindu widow—the Sisters are almost demonstrative to her—and one or two local European girls; the Commissariat-Sergeant class, I should think."