"Isn't that just what I've been gnashing my teeth over?" I asked. "I'm
glad you have the grace to admit it."
"I'll admit anything you like," she said. "But, John dear, we can't
really be sure yet that I'm the one who ought to do it. And--and maybe
there will be no room at the tables unless we hurry a little."
She was buttoning up her gloves again, quite coolly, and cast approving
glances at some radiographic prints on my wall.
"That must have been a splendid fracture," she commented.
"You are a few million years old in the ways of Eve," I told her, "but
you are still young in the practice of trained nursing. To you broken
legs and, perhaps, broken hearts, are as yet but interesting cases."
She turned her shapely head towards me, and for an instant her eyes
searched mine.
"Do you really believe that?" she asked, in a very low-sweet voice.
I stood before her, penitently.
"I don't suppose I do," I acknowledged. "Let us say that it was just some
of the growling of the dog. He doesn't usually mean anything by it."
"You're an awfully good fellow, John," said the little nurse, pleasantly.
"I know I've been hurting you a bit. Please, I'm sorry the medicine
tastes so badly."
The only thing I could do was to lift up one of her hands and kiss a
white kid glove, _faute de mieux_. It was stretched over her fingers,
however, and hence was part of her.
When we reached the restaurant she selected a table and placed herself so
that she might see as many diners as possible.
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