Page:Hilda Wade (1900).pdf/29

After four hours of profound slumber—breath hovering, as it seemed, between life and death—she began to come to again. In half an hour more she was wide awake; she opened her eyes and asked for a glass of hock, with beef essence or oysters.

That evening, by six o'clock, she was quite well, and able to go about her duties as usual.

'Sebastian is a wonderful man,' I said to her, as I entered her ward on my rounds at night. 'His coolness astonishes me. Do you know, he watched you all the time you were lying asleep there as if nothing were the matter.'

'Coolness?' she inquired, in a quiet voice. 'Or cruelty?'

'Cruelty?' I echoed, aghast. 'Sebastian cruel! Oh, Nurse Wade, what an idea! Why, he has spent his whole life in striving against all odds to alleviate pain. He is the apostle of philanthropy!'

'Of philanthropy, or of science? To alleviate pain, or to learn the whole truth about the human body?'

'Come, come now,' I cried. 'You analyse too far. I will not let even you put me out of conceit with Sebastian.' (Her face flushed at that 'even you'; I almost fancied she began to like me.) 'He is the enthusiasm of my life; just consider how much he has done for humanity!'

She looked me through, searchingly. 'I will not destroy your illusion,' she answered, after a pause. 'It is a noble and generous one. But is it not largely based on an ascetic face, long white hair, and a moustache that hides the cruel corners of the mouth? For the corners are cruel. Some day I will show you them. Cut off the long hair, shave the grizzled moustache—and what then will remain?' She drew a profile hastily. 'Just that,' and she showed it me. 'Twas a face like Robespierre's, grown harder and older, and