The man said something about a glorious name and a glorious pleasure to be nursed by such a nurse, and then both the girls laughed. He was glad they had found his tickets useful, but sorry he could not see them back to the hospital, being dragged away to the bally Foreign Office reception in honour of the Queen's birthday.
“But I'm coming to the ball, you know, and,” with a glance at Glory, “I've half a mind to bring my chum along with me!”
“Oh, do,” said Polly, partly covering the pupils of her eyes with her eyelids.
The man lowered his voice and said something about Glory which Glory did not catch, then waved his white-kid glove, saying “Ta-ta,” and was gone.
“Is he married?” said Glory.
“Married! Good gracious, no; what ridiculous ideas you've got!”
It was ten minutes after ten as the girls turned in at a sharp trot at the door of the hospital, still prattling and chattering and bringing some of the gaiety and nonsense of their holiday into the quiet precincts of the house of pain. The porter shook his finger at them with mock severity, and a ward Sister going through the porch in her white silence stopped to say that a patient had been crying out for one of them.
“It's me—I know it's me,” said Polly. “I've got a brother here out of a monastery, and he can't do with anybody else about him. It makes me tired of my life.”
But it was Glory who was wanted. The woman whom John Storm had picked up out of the streets was dying. Glory had helped to nurse her, and the poor old thing had kept herself alive that she might deliver to Glory her last charge and message. She could see nobody, so Glory leaned over the bed and spoke to her.
“I'm here, mammie; what is it?” she said, and the flushed young face bent close above the withered and white one.