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Now that is what the Nurse should have done; instead of which, in the darkened passageway, being very tired and exhausted and under a hideous strain, she suddenly slipped her arm through the Staff Doctor’s and, putting her head on his shoulder, began to cry softly.

“What’s this?” demanded the Staff Doctor sternly and, putting his arm round her: “Don’t you know that Junior Nurses are not supposed to weep over the Staff?” And, getting no answer but a choke: “We can’t have you used up like this; I’ll make them relieve you. When did you sleep?”

“I don’t want to be relieved,” said the Nurse, very muffled. “No-nobody else would know wh-what he wanted. I just–I just can’t bear to see him–to see him—-“

The Staff Doctor picked up the clean towel, which belonged on the Nurse’s left arm, and dried her eyes for her; then he sighed.

“None of us likes to see it, girl,” he said. “I’m an old man, and I’ve never got used to it. What do they send you to eat?”

“The food’s all right,” she said rather drearily. “I’m not hungry–that’s all. How long do you think—-“

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.”