“Miss Malgregor,” he gasped, “speaking of preferring ‘domestic service,’ as you call it—speaking of preferring domestic service to—nursing, how would you like to consider—to consider a position of—of—well, call it a—a position of general—heartwork—for a family of two? Myself and the Little Girl here being the two, as you understand,” he added briskly.
“Why, I think it would be grand!” beamed the White Linen Nurse.
A trifle mockingly the Senior Surgeon bowed his appreciation.
“Your frank and immediate—enthusiasm,” he murmured, “is more, perhaps, than I had dared to expect.”
“But it would be grand,” said the White Linen Nurse. Before the odd little smile in the Senior Surgeon’s eyes her white forehead puckered all up with perplexity. Then with her mind still thoroughly unawakened, her heart began suddenly to pitch and lurch like a frightened horse whose rider has not even remotely sensed as yet the approach of an unwonted footfall. “What did you say?” she repeated worriedly. “Just exactly what was it that you said? I guess, maybe, I didn’t understand just exactly what it was that you said.”
The smile in the Senior Surgeon’s eyes deepened a little.
“I asked you,” he said, “how you would like to consider a position of ‘general heartwork’ in a family of two, myself and the Little Girl here being the two. ‘Heartwork’ was what I said. Yes, ‘heartwork,’ not housework.”
“Heartwork?” faltered the White Linen Nurse. “Heartwork? I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Like two falling rose-petals her eyelids fluttered down across her affrighted eyes. “Oh, when I shut my eyes, sir, and just hear your voice, I know of course, sir, that it’s some sort of a joke; but when I look right at you, I—I—don’t know—what it is.”
“Open your eyes and keep them open, then, till you do find out,” suggested the Senior Surgeon, bluntly.
Defiantly once again the blue eyes and the gray eyes challenged each other.