Nurse Hopkins said sadly:
“If only I’d thought to bring along some tea now.”
Elinor said absently:
“There’s a little tea still in the canister in the pantry.”
Nurse Hopkins’ face brightened.
“Then I’ll just pop out and put the kettle on. No milk, I suppose?”
Elinor said:
“Yes, I brought some.”
“Well, then, that’s all right,” said Nurse Hopkins and hurried out.
Elinor and Mary were alone together.
A queer tension crept into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to make conversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue over them. She said, rather stiffly:
“You—like your work in London?”
“Yes, thank you. I—I’m very grateful to you—”
A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so discordant, so unlike her that Mary stared at her in surprise.
Elinor said:
“You needn’t be so grateful!”
Mary, rather embarrassed, said:
“I didn’t mean—that is—”
She stopped.
Elinor was staring at her—a glance so searching, so, yes, strange that Mary flinched under it.
She said:
“Is—is anything wrong?”
Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away:
“What should be wrong?”
Mary murmured.
“You—you looked—”
Elinor said with a little laugh:
“Was I staring? I’m so sorry. I do sometimes—when I’m thinking of something else.”
Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly, “I’ve put the kettle on,” and went out again.
Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter.