She shut the door behind her and crept along the corridor, holding to the wall; then called one of the private nurses and bade her light up the Prince Ward. The woman did so, remained in the room a few moments, then came back leisurely.
“Well?” said Mrs. Waxe.
“Well,” returned the nurse, “I opened the window. Did not know the ward had been used lately. Pretty bad case, wasn’t it?”
“Bad case?” repeated Mrs. Waxe, a light shining through her nostrils to her brain. “Yes; perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” repeated the private nurse satirically. “I guess I ought to know by this time. I should say there hadn’t been much left of that case to put under ground.”
She went back to her case, wondering at the stupidity of the English generally and in particular.
Mrs. Waxe put her aching foot into hot water and meditated.
The twenty-eighth of February dawned dark, for a blizzard from the northwest was blowing. It was the worst storm of the last half of the century.