“Yes, sir,” faltered the White Linen Nurse. All the storm and passion died suddenly from her, leaving her just a frightened girl again, flushing pink-white before the Senior Surgeon’s scathing stare. One step, two steps, three, she advanced toward him. “Oh, I mean, sir,” she whispered—“oh, I mean, sir, that I’m just an ordinary, ignorant country girl, and you—are further above me than the moon from the sea! I couldn’t expect you to—love me, sir, I couldn’t even dream of your loving me; but I do think you might like me just a little bit with your heart!”
“What?” cried the Senior Surgeon. “What?”
Whacketty-bang against the window-pane sounded the Little Crippled Girl’s knuckled fists. Darkly against the window-pane squashed the Little Crippled Girl’s staring face.
“Father,” screamed the shrill voice. “Father, there’s a white lady here, with two black ladies, washing the breakfast dishes! Is it Aunt Agnes?”
With a totally unexpected laugh, with a totally unexpected desire to laugh, the Senior Surgeon strode across the room and unlocked his door. Even then his lips against the White Linen Nurse’s ear made just a whisper, not a kiss.
“For God’s sake, hurry!” he said. “Let’s get out of here before any telephone-message catches me!”
Then almost calmly he walked out on the piazza and greeted his sister-in-law.
“Hello, Agnes!” he said.
“Hello, yourself!” smiled his sister-in-law.
“How’s everything?” he inquired politely.