"Docterr Ste-earling, Junyior, Doct-terr Eth-err-ridge Ste-arling, Junyior. Calling Doct-terr...."
They wilted apart, but their eyes still held and Cub said, softly and definitely:
"My father's ill. Very ill. The hospital's in a terrible stew. I may not get to see you for a couple of days. Be good until I do! Take care of yourself! Don't be ferocious to anybody, Salscie! Promise? I'll tell Mattus to let you have your clothes, and try sitting up if you like. Think you'll need some more pills tonight ... darling?"
She blushed and smiled slowly. Cub took a box from his pocket and gave her two veronal tablets.
"Kiss me quick, Salscie! Sophie'd better kiss me, too!"
"Remember! This place is full of tales.... Trust me?"
Dr. Henry MacArthur sat at his desk and awaited the arrival of the staff. He sat perfectly erect, dreadfully calm, with the hopeless heroism of the stone blind. His hands were relaxed upon his knees. Lifting them to cradle his head would require such an enormous effort ... mentally and physically....
He was as changed from the man who had lain in bed two nights before and enjoyed scotch highballs as if he had spent twenty years in Siberia. The hair at the temples looked grayer and the face was marble in its emotions. They came separately, and filled its furrows. Bitter self recrimination. He had sent a perfectly innocent woman to her death. A mere child. He had allowed her to go up, pass through hell and die ... for his honor, Cub Sterling's reputation, and the Elijah Wilson Hospital. And to die so uselessly, so bravely, so quietly.
And the self-recrimination was followed by a nobility which made him beautiful, as the world thought King Albert beautiful while he was bleeding over Belgium.
Bleeding over the tremendous heroism of human beings. Over the cool straight bravery of quiet people. Over the fragile littleness of her still body. Over the sense of still living that her small ivory face had held when he and Cub Sterling and Dr. Bear's assistant were leaning over her body, under the glaring light of that autopsy table.
It had been like bending over a plucked magnolia blossom, on a summer morning. There was a spiritual fragrance about her as poignant as the perfume of magnolias. A feeling of sheer beauty, wasted....