She found her, in her own apartments, a respectable woman indeed,
perfectly ready to tell everything that she knew, and evidently quite
unsuspicious of anything wrong. She was invited to take charge of a
sick man on the morning of Thursday: she was told that he was a young
Irish lord, dangerously ill of a pulmonary disorder; the doctor, in
fact, informed her that his life hung by a thread, and might drop at
any moment, though on the other hand he had known such cases linger on
for many months. She arrived as she had been ordered, at midday: she
was taken into the sick-room by the doctor, who showed her the patient
placidly sleeping on a sofa: the bed had been slept in, and was not yet
made. After explaining the medicines which she was to administer, and
the times when they were to be given, and telling her something about
his diet, the doctor left her alone with the patient.
"He was still sleeping profoundly," said the nurse.
"You are sure that he was sleeping, and not dead?" asked Fanny,
sharply.
"Mademoiselle, I have been a nurse for many years. I know my duties.
The moment the doctor left me I verified his statements. I proved that
the patient was sleeping by feeling his pulse and observing his
breath.
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