I don't know whether it
is usual for young women in nurse's uniform to career about the
country driving wounded men in motor cars, but Betty did it. She
cared very little for the usual. She came in, leaving the man in
the car, and crossed the lawn, flushed and bright-eyed, a
refreshing picture for a tired man.
"We're in a fix up at the hospital," she announced as soon as she
was in reasonable speaking distance, "and I want you to get us out
of it."
Sitting on the grass, she told me the difficulty. A wounded
soldier, discharged from some distant hospital, and home now on
sick furlough before rejoining his depot, had been brought into
the hospital with a broken head. The modern improvements on
vinegar and brown paper having been applied, the man was now ready
to leave. I interrupted with the obvious question. Why couldn't he
go to his own home? It appeared that the prospect terrified him.
On his arrival, at midday, after eight months' absence in France,
he found that his wife had sold or pawned practically everything
in the place, and that the lady herself was in the violent phase
of intoxication. His natural remonstrances not being received with
due meekness, a quarrel arose from which the lady emerged
victorious.
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