“Go on!” said Jimmie.
“Straight!” said the other. “Her father's the earl of Skye-terrier, or some such damn place.”
“Aw, cut it out!” growled the little machinist—for you never knew in dealing with these soldier-boys whether you were being “kidded” or not.
“Did you ask her name?”
“She told me it was Miss Clendenning.”
“Well, you ask her if she ain't the Honourable Beatrice Clendenning, and see what she says.”
But Jimmie could not get up the nerve to ask. When the young lady came back, carrying his chamber washed clean, her pet patient was lying still, but so red in the face that she suspected that he had been trying to get out of bed without permission.
III.
Nor was that the end of wonders. Next day there ran a murmur of excitement through the ward, and everything was cleaned up fresh, though there was really nothing that needed cleaning. Flowers were brought in, and each nurse had a flower pinned on her waist. When Jimmie asked what was “up”, the Honourable Beatrice looked at him with a quizzical smile. “We're going to have some distinguished visitors,” she said. “But you won't be interested—a class-conscious proletarian like you.”
And she would not tell him; but when she went out, the fellow in the next bed told. “It's the king and queen that's comin',” said the gun-pointer.