"Oughtn't one to be grateful to God for the beautiful things He gives us?"
She flushed and averted her eyes. "You are very good to me, Majy."
"What made you attire yourself in all this splendour?" I asked, laughing. The wise man does not carry sentiment too far. He keeps it like a little precious nugget of pure gold; the less wise beats it out into a flabby film.
"I don't know," she said, shifting her position and casting a critical glance at her bodice. "All kinds of funny little feminine vanities. Perhaps I wanted to see whether I hadn't gone off. Perhaps I wanted to try to feel good-looking even if I wasn't. Perhaps I thought my dear old Majy was sick to death of the hospital uniform perfumed with disinfectant. Perhaps it was just a catlike longing for comfort. Anyhow, I'm glad you like me."
"My dear Betty," said I, "I adore you."
"And I you," she laughed. "So there's a pair of us."
She lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee. Then, breaking a short silence:
"I hope you quite understand, dear, what I said about Leonard Boyce. I shouldn't like to leave you with the smallest little bit of a wrong impression."
"What wrong impression could I possibly have?" I asked disingenuously.
"You might think that I was still in love with him."