“Something to ask you. Bend down.”
As the tall young woman obeyed, Bobbie put one hand to his mouth in order that his confidential inquiry might not be heard by the other boys. “How’s your young man?” he whispered.
Sister Margaret flushed and stood upright.
“What do you mean, Twenty?” she answered, severely. “You must understand that here we don’t allow boys to be impudent.”
“It’s all right, Miss,” whispered Bobbie. “Don’t fly all to pieces. I’m not chaffing of you. I mean Mr. West—Mr. Myddleton West.”
“You know Mr. West?” she said, bending down again.
“Rather!” said the boy. “Saw your photograph in his place yesterday. Only one in the room.”
She sat down beside the bed, her eyes taking a light of interest. Bobbie looking round the ward to see that this special honour was being noted, and observed that the numbers on the opposite side scowled jealously at him.
“I’ve known him off and on,” said Bobbie, “these two or three years. Good sort, he is.”
“Mr. West is indeed a very good fellow,” said the Sister earnestly. “But you—you are wrong, Twenty, in assuming that we are engaged. Nothing, in point of fact, is further from the truth. We are very good friends, and that is all.”