Only once, in fact, across the intervening chasm of crankiness did the Senior Surgeon hurl a smile that was even remotely self-conscious or conciliatory. Glancing up suddenly from a particularly sharp and disagreeable speech, he noted the White Linen Nurse’s red lips mumbling softly one to the other.
“Are you specially—religious, Miss Malgregor?” he grinned quite abruptly.
“No, not specially, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse. “Why, sir?”
“Oh, it’s only,” grinned the Senior Surgeon, dourly—“it’s only that every time I’m especially ugly to you, I see your lips moving as though in ‘silent prayer,’ as they call it; and I was just wondering if there was any special formula you used with me that kept you so everlastingly damned serene. Is there?”
“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.
“What is it?” demanded the Senior Surgeon, quite bluntly.
“Do I have to tell?” gasped the White Linen Nurse. A little tremulously in her hand the empty cup she was carrying rattled against its saucer. “Do I have to tell?” she repeated pleadingly.
A delirious little thrill of power went fluttering through the Senior Surgeon’s heart.
“Yes, you have to tell me,” he announced quite seriously.
In absolute submission to his demand, though with very palpable reluctance, the White Linen Nurse came forward to the table, put down the cup and saucer, and began to finger a trifle nervously at the cloth.