The morning papers did pretty well with what they had. “Mysterious Woman Nurses Prominent Varsity Athlete”—“Who Is The Pretty Girl that Nursed Society Man in Las Olivas Horror?”—“Modest Heroine of Las Olivas Holocaust.” But the secret, thanks to Mark Heath, was safe.
She slept that night. Far along in the morning she awoke to the delicious sense of physical renewal. The situation crept into her mind stage by stage, as such things do arrive in the awakening consciousness. She was calm now, what with her rest of body, her 262 decision of soul. She could think it out; her course of action and how she might accomplish it.
A knock at her door roused her from half-sleep and meditation to full wakening. Kate Waddington had entered—Kate, transformed into a picturesque imitation of a nurse. She was all in grass linen, the collar rolled away to show her round, golden throat. Her flowing tie was blue, and a blue bow completed the knot of her hair. She looked cool, efficient, domestically business-like.
“He’s better!” Kate burst out with the news as Eleanor turned her head. “There’s really no danger now. The nurse says that he roused this morning and showed a positively vicious temper because they would not let him see anyone.”
“That’s pleasant news. I was sure that he would recover.” Eleanor caught an unconsidered expression, no more than a glint and a drooping, in Kate’s eyes. This answer, so calm, so entirely unemotional, had touched curiosity if nothing more. But Kate chirped on:
“I’m playing Mama’s little household fairy—how do you like the way I dress the part? 263 I sent for these clothes last night. Now you’re to lie abed and let me bring you your breakfast. Are you rested, dear? It was enough to kill two women!”
“Quite rested, I think.”
Kate opened the window, bustled about putting the room to rights.
“Shall I bring your coffee now?” she asked at last.