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Page 21
The Oldest Trustee had just remarked to the Social Trustee that all the
things gossip had said of the widow of the Richest Trustee were
undoubtedly true--she was a nonentity--when the Senior Surgeon dropped
in. This was according to the President's previous request. That
gentleman of charitable parts had implied that there would undoubtedly
be good news and congratulations awaiting him. This did not mean that
the board intended to slight its duty and fail to consider the matter
of the incurables with due conscientiousness--the board was as strong
for conscience as for conservation. It merely went to show that the
fate of Ward C had been preordained from the beginning; and that the
President felt wholly justified in requesting the presence of the
Senior Surgeon at the end of the meeting.
His appearance called forth such a laudatory buzzing of tongues and
such a cordial shaking of hands that one might have easily mistaken the
meeting for a successful political rally or a religious revival. The
Youngest and Prettiest Trustee fluttered about him, chirping ecstatic
expletives, while the Disagreeable Trustee watched her and growled to
himself.
"So splendid," she chirped, "the unanimous indorsement of the board--at
least, practically unanimous." And she eyed the widow of the Richest
Trustee accusingly.
"The incurable ward and Margaret MacLean have really been a terrible
responsibility, haven't they? I can't help feeling it will mean quite
a load off our minds." It was the Social Trustee who spoke, and she
followed it with a little sigh of relief.
The sigh was echoed twice--thrice--about the room. Then the Meanest
Trustee barked out:
"I hope it will mean a load off our purses. That ward and that nurse
have always wanted things, and had them, that they had no business
wanting. I hope we can save a substantial sum now for the endowment
fund."
The Oldest Trustee smiled tolerantly. "Of course it isn't as if the
cases were not hopeless. I can see no object, however, in making
concessions and sacrifices to keep in the hospital cases that cannot be
cured; and, no doubt, we can place them most satisfactorily in state
institutions for orphans or deficients."
At that moment the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee spied the primroses
on the President's desk--she had been too engrossed in the surgical
profession to observe much apart. "I believe I'm going to decorate
you." And she dimpled up at the Senior Surgeon, coquettishly.
Selecting one of the blossoms with great care, she drew it through the
buttonhole in his lapel. "See, I'm decorating you with the Order of
the Golden Primrose--for brilliancy." Whereupon she dropped her eyes
becomingly.
"Good Lord!" muttered the Disagreeable Trustee to the President, his
eye focused on the two. "She'll fetch him this time. And she'll have
him so hypnotized with all this chirping and dancing business that
he'll be perfectly helpless in a month, or I miss--"
The Youngest and Prettiest Trustee looked up just in time to intercept
that eye, and she attacked it with a saucy little stare. "I believe
you are both jealous," she flung over her shoulder. But the very next
moment she was dimpling again. "I believe I am going to decorate
everybody--including myself. I'm sure we all deserve it for our loyal
support of Science." She, likewise, always spelled it with a capital,
having acquired the habit from the Senior Surgeon.
She snatched a cluster of primroses from the green Devonshire bowl; and
one was fastened securely in the lapel or frill of every trustee, not
even omitting the gray wisp of a woman by the door.
And so it came to pass that every member of the board of Saint
Margaret's Free Hospital for Children went home on May Eve with one of
the faeries' own flowers tucked somewhere about his or her person.
Moreover, they went home at precisely three minutes and twenty-two
seconds past seven by the clock on the tower--the astronomical time for
the sun to go down on the 30th of April. Crack went all the
combination locks on all the faery raths, spilling the Little People
over all the world; and creak went the gates of Tir-na-n'Og, swinging
wide open for wandering mortals to come back.
As the trustees left the hospital the Senior Surgeon turned into the
cross-corridor for his case, still gay with his Order of the Golden
Primrose; and there, at the foot of the stairs, he ran into Margaret
MacLean. They faced each other for the merest fraction of a breath,
both conscious and embarrassed; then she glimpsed the flower in his
coat and a cry of surprise escaped her.
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