must go back to my duties,” she said. “Good-by.”
“Not good-by,” said Sam heartily, “only until Saturday—and my name's Sam Ward and my address is the city room of the REPUBLIC. What's your name?”
“Sister Anne,” said the girl. “In the nursing order to which I belong we have no last names.”
“So,” asked Sam, “I'll call you Sister Anne?”
“No; just Sister,” said the girl.
“Sister!” repeated Sam, “Sister!” He breathed the word rather than spoke it; and the way he said it and the way he looked when he said it made it carry almost the touch of a caress. It was as if he had said “Sweetheart!” or “Beloved!” “I'll not forget,” said Sam.
Sister Anne gave an impatient, annoyed laugh.
“Nor I,” she said.
Sam returned to New York in the smoking-car, puffing feverishly at his cigar and glaring dreamily at the smoke. He was living the day over again and, in anticipation, the day off, still to come. He rehearsed their next meeting at the station; he considered whether or not he would meet her with a huge bunch of violets or would have it brought to her when they were at luncheon by the head waiter. He decided the latter way would be more of a pleasant surprise. He planned the luncheon. It was to be the most marvellous repast he could evolve; and, lest there should be the slightest error, he would have it prepared in advance—and it should cost half his week's salary.
The place where they were to dine he would leave to her, because he had observed that women had strange ideas about clothes—some of them thinking that certain clothes must go with certain restaurants. Some of them seemed to believe that, instead of their conferring distinction upon the restaurant, the restaurant conferred distinction upon them. He was sure Sister Anne would not be so foolish, but it might be that she must always wear her nurse's uniform and that she would prefer not to be conspicuous; so he decided that the choice of where they would dine he would leave to her. He calculated that the whole day ought to cost about eighty dollars, which, as star reporter, was what he was then earning each week. That was little enough to give for a day that would be the birthday of his life! No, he contradicted—the day he had first met her must always be the birthday of his life; for never had he met one like her and he was sure there never would be one like her. She was so entirely superior to all the others, so fine, so difficult—in her manner there was something that rendered her unapproachable. Even her simple nurse's gown was worn with a difference. She might have been a princess in fancy dress. And yet, how humble she had been when he begged her to let him for one day personally conduct her over the great city! “You are so kind to take pity on me,” she had said. He thought of many clever, pretty speeches he might have made. He was so annoyed he had not thought of them at the time that he kicked violently at the seat in front of him.
He wondered what her history might be; he was sure it was full of beautiful courage and self-sacrifice. It certainly was outrageous that one so glorious must work for her living, and for such a paltry living—forty dollars a month! It was worth that merely to have her sit in the flat where one could look at her; for already he had decided that, when they were married, they would live in a flat—probably in one overlooking Central Park, on Central Park West. He knew of several attractive suites there at thirty-five dollars a week—or, if she preferred the suburbs, he would forsake his beloved New York and return to the country. In his gratitude to her for being what she was, he conceded even that sacrifice.
When he reached New York, from the speculators he bought front-row seats at five dollars for the two most popular plays in town. He put them away carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Possession of them made him feel that already he had obtained an option on six hours of complete happiness.
After she left Sam, Sister Anne passed hurriedly through the hospital to the matron's room and, wrapping herself in a raccoon coat, made her way to a waiting motor car and said, “Home!” to the chauffeur. He drove her to the Flagg family vault, as Flagg's envious millionaire neighbors called the pile of white marble that topped the highest hill above Greenwich, and which for years had served as a landfall to mariners on the Sound.
There were a number of people at tea when she arrived and they greeted her noisily.
“I have had a most splendid adventure!” said Sister Anne. “There were six of us, you know, dressed up as Red Cross nurses, and we gave away programmes. Well, one of the New York reporters thought I was a real nurse and interviewed me about the Home. Of course I knew enough about it to keep it up, and I kept it up so well that he was terribly sorry for me; and. …”
One of the tea drinkers was little Hollis Holworthy, who prided himself on knowing who's who in New York. He had met Sam Ward at first nights and prize fights. He laughed scornfully.
“Don't you believe it!” he interrupted. “That man who was talking to you was Sam Ward. He's the smartest newspaper man in New York; he was just leading you on. Do you suppose there's a reporter in America who wouldn't know you in the dark? Wait until you see the Sunday paper.”
Sister Anne exclaimed indignantly.
“He did not know me!” she protested. “It quite upset him that I should be wasting my life measuring out medicines and making beds.”
There was a shriek of disbelief and laughter.
“I told him,” continued Sister Anne, “that I got forty dollars a month, and he said I could make more as a typewriter; and I said I preferred to be a manicurist.”
“Oh, Anita!” protested the admiring chorus.
“And he was most indignant. He absolutely refused to allow me to be a manicurist. And he asked me to take a day off with him and let him show me New York. And he offered, as attractions, moving-picture shows and a drive on a Fifth Avenue bus, and feeding peanuts to the animals in the park. And if I insisted upon a chaperon I might bring one of the nurses. We're to meet at the soda-water fountain in the Grand Central Station. He said, 'The day cannot begin too soon.'”
“Oh, Anita!” shrieked the chorus.
Lord Deptford, who as the newspapers had repeatedly informed the American public, had come to the Flaggs' country-place to try to marry Anita Flagg, was amused.
“What an awfully jolly rag!” he cried. “And what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” said Anita Flagg. “The reporters have been making me ridiculous for the last three years; now I have got back at one of them! And,” she added, “that's all there is to that!”
That night, however, when the house party was making toward bed, Sister Anne stopped by the stairs and said to Lord Deptford: “I want to hear you call me Sister.”
“Call you what?” exclaimed the young man. “I will tell you,” he whispered, “what I'd like to call you!”
“You will not!” interrupted Anita. “Do as I tell you and say Sister once. Say it as though you meant it.”
“But I don't mean it,” protested his lordship. “I've said already what I. …”
“Never mind what you've said already,” commanded Miss Flagg. “I've heard that from a lot of people. Say Sister just once.”
His lordship frowned in embarrassment.
