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Page 42
The Staff Doctor, who was putting an antiseptic gauze cap over his
white hair, ran a safety pin into his scalp at that moment and did
not reply at once. Then, "Perhaps--until morning," he said.
He held out his arms for the long, white, sterilised coat, and a
moment later, with his face clean-washed of emotion, and looking
like a benevolent Turk, he entered the sick room. The Nurse was just
behind him, with an order book in one hand and a clean towel over
her arm.
Billy Grant, from his bed, gave the turban a high sign of greeting.
"Allah--is--great!" he gasped cheerfully. "Well, doctor--I guess
it's all--over but--the shouting."
II
Some time after midnight Billy Grant roused out of a stupor. He was
quite rational; in fact, he thought he would get out of bed. But his
feet would not move. This was absurd! One's feet must move if one
wills them to! However, he could not stir either of them. Otherwise
he was beautifully comfortable.
Faint as was the stir he made the Nurse heard him. She was sitting
in the dark by the window.
"Water?" she asked softly, coming to him.
"Please." His voice was stronger than it had been.
Some of the water went down his neck, but it did not matter. Nothing
mattered except the Lindley Grants. The Nurse took his temperature
and went out into the hall to read the thermometer, so he might not
watch her face. Then, having recorded it under the nightlight, she
came back into the room.
"Why don't you put on something comfortable?" demanded Billy Grant
querulously. He was so comfortable himself and she was so stiffly
starched, so relentless of collar and cap.
"I am comfortable."
"Where's that wrapper thing you've been wearing at night?" The Nurse
rather flushed at this. "Why don't you lie down on the cot and take
a nap? I don't need anything."
"Not--not to-night."
He understood, of course, but he refused to be depressed. He was too
comfortable. He was breathing easily, and his voice, though weak,
was clear.
"Would you mind sitting beside me? Or are you tired? But of course
you are. Perhaps in a night or so you'll be over there again,
sleeping in a nice white gown in a nice fresh bed, with no querulous
devil----"
"Please!"
"You'll have to be sterilised or formaldehyded?"
"Yes." This very low.
"Will you put your hand over mine? Thanks. It's--company, you know."
He was apologetic; under her hand his own burned fire. "I--I spoke
to the Staff about that while you were out of the room."
"About what?"
"About your marrying me."
"What did he say?" She humoured him.
"He said he was willing if you were. You're not going to move--are
you?"
"No. But you must not talk."
"It's like this. I've got a little property--not much; a little." He
was nervously eager about this. If she knew it amounted to anything
she would refuse, and the Lindley Grants---- "And when I--you
know---- I want to leave it where it will do some good. That little
brother of yours--it would send him through college, or help to."
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