Captain Hewes is coming, too, if he can."
Hilda, going away in the rain, dwelt moodily on Drusilla's
opportunities. If only she, too, might dine in Paris with men like Dr.
McKenzie and Captain Hewes. There were indeed, men who might ask her
to dine with them, but not as Drusilla had been asked, as an equal and
as a friend.
The way was long, the road was muddy. There was not much to look
towards at the end. It was not that she minded the dreadfulness of
sights and sounds--she had been too much in hospitals for that. But
she hated the ugliness, the roughness, the grinding toil.
Yet had she been with Dr. McKenzie, she would have toiled gladly for
him. There would have been the sight of his crinkled copper head, the
sound of his voice, his teasing laugh to sustain her. And now it was
Drusilla who would see him, who would sit with him at the table, who
would tempt his teasing laugh.
Well--if he didn't take her back, he would be sorry. There had been a
patient in the hospital who in his delirium had whispered things. When
he had come to himself, she had told him calmly, "You are a spy." He
had not whitened, but had measured her with a glance.
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