Chapter 3

_The reception room of the Infirmary, a large, high-ceilinged room painted white, with oiled, hard wood floor. In the left wall, forward, a row of four windows. Farther back, the main entrance from the drive, and another window. In the rear wall left, a glass partition looking out on the sleeping porch. A row of white beds, with the faces of patients barely peeping out from under piles of heavy bed-clothes, can be seen. To the right of this partition, a bookcase, and a door leading to the hall past the patients' rooms. Farther right, another door opening on the examining room. In the right wall, rear, a door to the office. Farther forward, a row of windows. In front of the windows, a long dining-table with chairs. On the left of the table, towards the centre of the room, a chimney with two open fire-places, facing left and right. Several wicker armchairs are placed around the fire-place on the left in which a cheerful wood fire is crackling. To the left of centre, a round reading and writing table with a green-shaded electric lamp. Other electric lights are in brackets around the walls. Easy chairs stand near the table, which is stacked with magazines. Rocking chairs are placed here and there about the room, near the windows, etc. A gramophone stands near the left wall, forward._

_It is nearing eight o'clock of a cold evening about a week later._

_At the rise of the curtain_ Stephen Murray _is discovered sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, left._ Murray _is thirty years old--a tall, slender, rather unusual-looking fellow with a pale face, sunken under high cheek bones, lined about the eyes and mouth, jaded and worn for one still so young. His intelligent, large hazel eyes have a tired, dispirited expression in repose, but can quicken instantly with a concealed mechanism of mocking, careless humour whenever his inner privacy is threatened. His large mouth aids this process of protection by a quick change from its set apathy to a cheerful grin of cynical good nature. He gives off the impression of being somehow dissatisfied with himself, but not yet embittered enough by it to take it out on others. His manner, as revealed by his speech--nervous, inquisitive, alert--seems more an acquired quality than any part of his real nature. He stoops a trifle, giving him a slightly round-shouldered appearance. He is dressed in a shabby dark suit, baggy at the knees. He is staring into the fire, dreaming, an open book lying unheeded on the arm of his chair. The gramophone is whining out the last strains of Dvorak's Humoresque. In the doorway to the office,_ Miss Gilpin _stands talking to_ Miss Howard. _The former is a slight, middle-aged woman with black hair, and a strong, intelligent face, its expression of resolute efficiency softened and made kindly by her warm, sympathetic grey eyes._ Miss Howard _is tall, slender and blonde--decidedly pretty and provokingly conscious of it, yet with a certain air of seriousness underlying her apparent frivolity. She is twenty years old. The elder woman is dressed in the all-white of a full-fledged nurse._ Miss Howard _wears the grey-blue uniform of one still in training. The record finishes._ Murray _sighs with relief, but makes no move to get up and stop the grinding needle._ Miss Howard _hurries across to the machine._ Miss Gilpin _goes back into the office._

MISS HOWARD (_takes off the record, glancing at_ Murray _with amused vexation_). It's a wonder you wouldn't stop this machine grinding itself to bits, Mr. Murray.

MURRAY (_with a smile_). I was hoping the darn thing would bust. (Miss Howard _sniffs._ Murray _grins at her teasingly._) It keeps you from talking to me. That's the real music.

MISS HOWARD (_comes over to his chair laughing_). It's easy to see you've got Irish in you. Do you know what I think? I think you're a natural born kidder. All newspaper reporters are like that, I've heard.

MURRAY. You wrong me terribly. (_Then frowning._) And it isn't charitable to remind me of my job. I hoped to forget all about it up here.

MISS HOWARD (_surprised_). I think it's great to be able to write. I wish I could. You ought to be proud of it.

MURRAY (_glumly_). I'm not. You can't call it writing--not what I did--small town stuff. (_Changing the subject._) But I wanted to ask you something. Do you know when I'm to be moved away to the huts?

MISS HOWARD. In a few days, I guess. Don't be impatient. (Murray _grunts and moves nervously on his chair._) What's the matter? Don't you like us here at the Sanatorium?

MURRAY (_smiling_). Oh--you--yes! (_Then seriously._) I don't care for the atmosphere, though. (_He waves his hand towards the partition looking out on the porch._) All those people in bed out there on the porch seem so sick. It's depressing. I can't do anything for them--and--it makes me feel so helpless.

MISS HOWARD. Well, it's the rules, you know. All the patients have to come here first until Doctor Stanton finds out whether they're well enough to be sent out to the huts and cottages. And remember you're a patient just like the ones in bed out there--even if you are up and about.

MURRAY. I know it. But I don't feel as I were--really sick like them.

MISS HOWARD (_wisely_). None of them do, either.

MURRAY (_after a moment's reflection--cynically_). Yes, I suppose it's that pipe dream that keeps us all going, eh?

MISS HOWARD. Well, you ought to be thankful. You're very lucky, if you knew it. (_Lowering her voice._) Shall I tell you a secret? I've seen your chart and _you've_ no cause to worry. Doctor Stanton joked about it. He said you were too uninteresting--there was so little the matter with you.

MURRAY (_pleased, but pretending indifference_). Humph! He's original in that opinion.

MISS HOWARD. I know it's hard your being the only one up the week since you've been here, with no one to talk to; but there's another patient due to-day. Maybe she'll be well enough to be around with you. (_With a quick glance at her wrist watch._) She can't be coming unless she got in on the last train.

MURRAY (_interestedly_). It's a she, eh?

MISS HOWARD. Yes.

MURRAY (_grinning provokingly_). Young?

MISS HOWARD. Eighteen, I believe. (_Seeing his grin--with feigned pique._) I suppose you'll be asking if she's pretty next! Oh, you men are all alike, sick or well. Her name is Carmody, that's the only other thing I know. So there!

MURRAY. Carmody?

MISS HOWARD. Oh, you don't know her. She's from another part of the state from your town.

MISS GILPIN (_appearing in the office doorway_). Miss Howard.

MISS HOWARD. Yes, Miss Gilpin. (_In an aside to Murray __as she leaves him._) It's time for those horrid diets.

(_She hurries back into the office._ Murray _stares into the fire._ Miss Howard _reappears from the office and goes out by the door to the hall, rear. Carriage wheels are heard from the drive in front of the house on the left. They stop. After a pause there is a sharp rap on the door and a bell rings insistently. Men's muffled voices are heard in argument._ Murray _turns curiously in his chair._ Miss Gilpin _comes from the office and walks quickly to the door, unlocking and opening it._ Eileen _enters, followed by_ Nicholls, _who is carrying her suit-case, and by her father._)

EILEEN. I'm Miss Carmody. I believe Doctor Gaynor wrote----

MISS GILPIN (_taking her hand--with kind affability_). We've been expecting you all day. How do you do? I'm Miss Gilpin. You came on the last train, didn't you?

EILEEN (_heartened by the other woman's kindness_). Yes. This is my father, Miss Gilpin--and Mr. Nicholls.

(Miss Gilpin _shakes hands cordially with the two men who are staring about the room in embarrassment._ Carmody _has very evidently been drinking. His voice is thick and his face puffed and stupid._ Nicholls' _manner is that of one who is accomplishing a necessary but disagreeable duty with the best grace possible, but is frightfully eager to get it over and done with._ Carmody's _condition embarrasses him acutely and when he glances at him it is with hatred and angry disgust._)

MISS GILPIN (_indicating the chairs in front of the windows on the left, forward_). Won't you gentlemen sit down? (Carmody _grunts sullenly and plumps himself into the one nearest the door._ Nicholls _hesitates, glancing down at the suit-case he carries._ Miss Gilpin _turns to_ Eileen.) And now we'll get you settled immediately. Your room is all ready for you. If you'll follow me---- (_She turns toward the door in rear, centre._)

EILEEN. Let me take the suit-case now, Fred.

MISS GILPIN (_as he is about to hand it to her--decisively_). No, my dear, you mustn't. Put the case right down there, Mr. Nicholls. I'll have it taken to Miss Carmody's room in a moment. (_She shakes her finger at_ Eileen _with kindly admonition._) That's the first rule you'll have to learn. Never exert yourself or tax your strength. It's very important. You'll find laziness is a virtue instead of a vice with us.

EILEEN (_confused_). I--I didn't know----

MISS GILPIN (_smiling_). Of course you didn't. And now if you'll come with me I'll show you your room. We'll have a little chat there and I can explain all the other important rules in a second. The gentlemen can make themselves comfortable in the meantime. We won't be gone more than a moment.

NICHOLLS (_feeling called upon to say something_). Yes--we'll wait--certainly, we're all right.

(Carmody _remains silent, glowering at the fire._ Nicholls _sits down beside him._ Miss Gilpin _and_ Eileen _go out._ Murray _switches his chair so that he can observe the two men out of the corner of his eye while pretending to be absorbed in his book._)

CARMODY (_looking about shiftily and reaching for the inside pocket of his overcoat_). I'll be havin' a nip now we're alone, and that cacklin' hen gone. I'm feelin' sick in the pit of the stomach. (_He pulls out a pint flask, half full._)

NICHOLLS (_excitedly_). For God's sake, don't! Put that bottle away! (_In a whisper._) Don't you see that fellow in the chair there?

CARMODY (_taking a big drink_). Ah, I'm not mindin' a man at all. Sure I'll bet it's himself would be likin' a taste of the same. (_He appears about to get up and invite_ Murray _to join him, but_ Nicholls _grabs his arm._)

NICHOLLS (_with a frightened look at_ Murray _who appears buried in his book_). Stop it, you---- Don't you know he's probably a patient and they don't allow them----

CARMODY (_scornfully_). A sick one, and him readin' a book like a dead man without a civil word out of him! It's queer they'd be allowin' the sick ones to read books, when I'll bet it's the same lazy readin' in the house brought the half of them down with the consumption itself. (_Raising his voice._) I'm thinking this whole shebang is a big, thievin' fake--and I've always thought so.

NICHOLLS (_furiously_). Put that bottle away, damn it! And don't shout. You're not in a public-house.

CARMODY (_with provoking calm_). I'll put it back when I'm ready, not before, and no lip from you!

NICHOLLS (_with fierce disgust_). You're drunk now. It's disgusting.

CARMODY (_raging_). Drunk, am I? Is it the like of a young jackass like you that's still wet behind the ears to be tellin' me I'm drunk?

NICHOLLS (_half-rising from his chair--pleadingly_). For heaven's sake, Mr. Carmody, remember where we are and don't raise any rumpus. What'll Eileen say? Do you want to make trouble for her at the start?

CARMODY (_puts the bottle away hastily, mumbling to himself--then glowers about the room scornfully with blinking eyes_). It's a grand hotel this is, I'm thinkin', for the rich to be takin' their ease, and not a hospital for the poor, but the poor has to pay for it.

NICHOLLS (_fearful of another outbreak_). Sssh!

CARMODY. Don't be shshin' at me? I'm tellin' you the truth. I'd make Eileen come back out of this to-night if that divil of a doctor didn't have me by the throat.

NICHOLLS (_glancing at him nervously_). I wonder how soon she'll be back? The carriage is waiting for us. We'll have to hurry to make that last train back. If we miss it--it means two hours on the damn tram.

CARMODY (_angrily_). Is it anxious to get out of her sight you are, and you engaged to marry and pretendin' to love her? (Nicholls _flushes guiltily._ Murray _pricks up his ears and stares over at_ Nicholls. _The latter meets his glance, scowls, and hurriedly averts his eyes._ Carmody _goes on accusingly._) Sure, it's no heart at all you have--and her your sweetheart for years--and her sick with the consumption--and you wild to run away from her and leave her alone.

NICHOLLS (_springing to his feet--furiously_). That's a----! (_He controls himself with an effort. His voice trembles._) You're not responsible for the idiotic things you're saying or I'd---- (_He turns away, seeking some escape from the old man's tongue._) I'll see if the man is still there with the carriage. (_He walks to the door on left and goes out._)

CARMODY (_following him with his eyes_). Go to hell, for all I'm preventin'. You've got no guts of a man in you. (_He addresses_ Murray _with the good nature inspired by the flight of_ Nicholls.) Is it true you're one of the consumptives, young fellow?

MURRAY (_delighted by this speech--with a grin_). Yes, I'm one of them.

CARMODY. My name's Carmody. What's yours, then?

MURRAY. Murray.

CARMODY (_slapping his thigh_). Irish as Paddy's pig! (Murray _nods._ Carmody _brightens and grows confidential._) I'm glad to be knowin' you're one of us. You can keep an eye on Eileen. That's my daughter that came with us. She's got consumption like yourself.

MURRAY. I'll be glad to do all I can.

CARMODY. Thanks to you--though it's a grand life she'll be havin' here from the fine look of the place. (_With whining self-pity._) It's me it's hard on, God help me, with four small children and me widowed, and havin' to hire a woman to come in and look after them and the house now that Eileen's sick; and payin' for her curin' in this place, and me with only a bit of money in the bank for my old age. That's hard, now, on a man, and who'll say it isn't?

MURRAY (_made uncomfortable by this confidence_). Hard luck always comes in bunches. (_To head off_ Carmody _who is about to give vent to more woe--quickly, with a glance towards the door from the hall._) If I'm not mistaken, here comes your daughter now.

CARMODY (_as_ Eileen _comes into the room_). I'll make you acquainted. Eileen! (_She comes over to them, embarrassed to find her father in his condition so chummy with a stranger._ Murray _rises to his feet._) This is Mr. Murray, Eileen. I want you to meet. He's Irish and he'll put you on to the ropes of the place. He's got the consumption, too, God pity him.

EILEEN (_distressed_). Oh, Father, how can you---- (_With a look at_ Murray _which pleads for her father._) I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Murray.

MURRAY (_with a straight glance at her which is so frankly admiring that she flushes and drops her eyes_). I'm glad to meet you. (_The front door is opened and_ Nicholls _re-appears, shivering with the cold. He stares over at the others with ill-concealed irritation._)

CARMODY (_noticing him--with malicious satisfaction_). Oho, here you are again. (Nicholls _scowls and turns away._ Carmody _addresses his daughter with a sly wink at_ Murray.) I thought Fred was slidin' down hill to the train with his head bare to the frost, and him so desperate hurried to get away from here. Look at the knees on him clappin' together with the cold, and with the great fear that's in him he'll be catchin' a sickness in this place! (Nicholls, _his guilty conscience stabbed to the quick, turns pale with impotent rage._)

EILEEN (_remonstrating pitifully_). Father! Please! (_She hurries over to_ Nicholls.) Oh, please don't mind him, Fred. You know what he is when he's drinking. He doesn't mean a word he's saying.

NICHOLLS (_thickly_). That's all right--for you to say. But I won't forget--I'm sick and tired standing for--I'm not used to--such people.

EILEEN (_shrinking from him_). Fred!

NICHOLLS (_with a furious glance at_ Murray). Before that cheap slob, too--letting him know everything!

EILEEN (_faintly_). He seems--very nice.

NICHOLLS. You've got your eyes set on him already, have you? Leave it to you! No fear of your not having a good time of it out here!

EILEEN. Fred!

NICHOLLS. Well, go ahead if you want to. I don't care. I'll---- (_Startled by the look of anguish which comes over her face, he hastily swallows his words. He takes out his watch--fiercely._) We'll miss that train, damn it!

EILEEN (_in a stricken tone_). Oh, Fred! (_Then forcing back her tears she calls to_ Carmody _in a strained voice._) Father! You'll have to go now. Miss Gilpin told me to tell you you'd have to go right away to catch the train.

CARMODY (_shaking hands with_ Murray). I'll be goin'. Keep your eye on her. I'll be out soon to see her and you and me'll have another talk.

MURRAY. Glad to. Good-bye for the present. (_He walks to windows on the far right, turning his back considerately on their leave-taking._)

EILEEN (_comes to_ Carmody _and hangs on his arm as they proceed to the door_). Be sure and kiss them all for me--Billy and Tom and Nora and little Mary--and bring them out to see me as soon as you can, father, please! And you come often, too, won't you? And don't forget to tell Mrs. Brennan all the directions I gave you coming out on the train. I told her, but she mightn't remember--about Mary's bath--and to give Tom his----

CARMODY (_impatiently_). Hasn't she brought up brats of her own, and doesn't she know the way of it? Don't be worryin' now, like a fool.

EILEEN (_helplessly_). Never mind telling her, then. I'll write to her.

CARMODY. You'd better not. Leave her alone. She'll not wish you mixin' in with her work and tellin' her how to do it.

EILEEN (_aghast_). Her work! (_She seems at the end of her tether--wrung too dry for any further emotion. She kisses her father at the door with indifference and speaks calmly._) Good-bye, father.

CARMODY (_in a whining tone of injury_). A cold kiss! And never a small tear out of her! Is your heart a stone? (_Drunken tears well from his eyes and he blubbers._) And your own father going back to a lone house with a stranger in it!

EILEEN (_wearily, in a dead voice_). You'll miss your train, father.

CARMODY (_raging in a second_). I'm off, then! Come on, Fred. It's no welcome we have with her here in this place--and a great curse on this day I brought her to it! (_He stamps out._)

EILEEN (_in the same dead tone_). Good-bye, Fred.

NICHOLLS (_repenting his words of a moment ago--confusedly_). I'm sorry, Eileen--for what I said. I didn't mean--you know what your father is--excuse me, won't you?

EILEEN (_without feeling_). Yes.

NICHOLLS. And I'll be out soon--in a week if I can make it. Well then,--good-bye for the present. (_He bends down as if to kiss her, but she shrinks back out of his reach._)

EILEEN (_a faint trace of mockery in her weary voice_). No, Fred. Remember you mustn't now.

NICHOLLS (_in an instant huff_). Oh, if that's the way you feel about----

(_He strides out and slams the door viciously behind him._ Eileen _walks slowly back towards the fire-place, her face fixed in a dead calm of despair. As she sinks into one of the armchairs, the strain becomes too much. She breaks down, hiding her face in her hands, her frail shoulders heaving with the violence of her sobs. At this sound,_ Murray _turns from the windows and comes over near her chair._)

MURRAY (_after watching her for a moment--in an embarrassed tone of sympathy_). Come on, Miss Carmody, that'll never do. I know it's hard at first--but--getting yourself all worked up is bad for you. You'll run a temperature and then they'll keep you in bed--which isn't pleasant. Take hold of yourself! It isn't so bad up here--really--once you get used to it! (_The shame she feels at giving way in the presence of a stranger only adds to her loss of control and she sobs heartbrokenly._ Murray _walks up and down nervously, visibly nonplussed and upset. Finally he hits upon something._) One of the nurses will be in any minute. You don't want them to see you like this.

EILEEN (_chokes back her sobs and finally raises her face and attempts a smile_). I'm sorry--to make such a sight of myself. I just couldn't help it.

MURRAY (_jocularly_). Well, they say a good cry does you a lot of good.

EILEEN (_forcing a smile_). I do feel--better.

MURRAY (_staring at her with a quizzical smile--cynically_). You shouldn't take those lovers' squabbles so seriously. To-morrow he'll be sorry--you'll be sorry. He'll write begging forgiveness--you'll do ditto. Result--all serene again.

EILEEN (_a shadow of pain on her face--with dignity_). Don't--please.

MURRAY (_angry at himself--hanging his head contritely_). I'm a fool. Pardon me. I'm rude sometimes--before I know it. (_He shakes off his confusion with a renewed attempt at a joking tone._) You can blame your father for any breaks I make. He made me your guardian, you know--told me to see that you behaved.

EILEEN (_with a genuine smile_). Oh, father! (_Flushing._) You mustn't mind anything he said to-night.

MURRAY (_thoughtlessly_). Yes, he was well lit up. I envied him. (Eileen _looks very shame-faced._ Murray _sees it and exclaims in exasperation at himself._) Darn! There I go again putting my foot in it! (_With an irrepressible grin._) I ought to have my tongue operated on--that's what's the matter with me. (_He laughs and throws himself in a chair._)

EILEEN (_forced in spite of herself to smile with him_). You're candid, at any rate, Mr. Murray.

MURRAY. Don't misunderstand me. Far be it from me to cast slurs at your father's high spirits. I said I envied him his jag and that's the truth. The same candour compels me to confess that I was pickled to the gills myself when I arrived here. Fact! I made love to all the nurses and generally disgraced myself--and had a wonderful time.

EILEEN. I suppose it does make you forget your troubles--for a while.

MURRAY (_waving this aside_). I didn't want to forget--not for a second. I wasn't drowning my sorrow. I was hilariously celebrating.

EILEEN (_astonished--by this time quite interested in this queer fellow to the momentary forgetfulness of her own grief_). Celebrating--coming here? But--aren't you sick?

MURRAY. T.B.? Yes, of course. (_Confidentially._) But it's only a matter of time when I'll be all right again. I hope it won't be too soon. I was dying for a rest--a good, long rest with time to think about things. I'm due to get what I wanted here. That's why I celebrated.

EILEEN (_with wide eyes_). I wonder if you really mean----

MURRAY. What I've been sayin'? I sure do--every word of it!

EILEEN (_puzzled_). I can't understand how anyone could---- (_With a worried glance over her shoulder._) I think I'd better look for Miss Gilpin, hadn't I? She may wonder---- (_She half rises from her chair._)

MURRAY (_quickly_). No. Please don't go yet. Sit down. Please do. (_She glances at him irresolutely, then resumes her chair._) They'll give you your diet of milk and shoo you off to bed on that freezing porch soon enough, don't worry. I'll see to it that you don't fracture any rules. (_Hitching his chair nearer hers--impulsively._) In all charity to me you've got to stick awhile. I haven't had a chance to really talk to a soul for a week. You found what I said a while ago hard to believe, didn't you?

EILEEN (_with a smile_). Isn't it? You said you hoped you wouldn't get well too soon!

MURRAY. And I meant it! This place is honestly like heaven to me--a lonely heaven till your arrival. (Eileen _looks embarrassed._) And why wouldn't it be? I've no fear for my health--eventually. Just let me tell you what I was getting away from---- (_With a sudden laugh full of a weary bitterness._) Do you know what it means to work from seven at night till three in the morning as a reporter on a morning newspaper in a town of twenty thousand people--for _ten years_? No. You don't. You can't. No one could who hadn't been through the mill. But what it did to me--it made me happy--yes, happy!--to get out here--T.B. and all, notwithstanding.

EILEEN (_looking at him curiously_). But I always thought being a reporter was so interesting.

MURRAY (_with a cynical laugh_). Interesting? On a small town rag? A month of it, perhaps, when you're a kid and new to the game. But ten years. Think of it! With only a raise of a couple of dollars every blue moon or so, and a weekly spree on Saturday night to vary the monotony. (_He laughs again._) Interesting, eh? Getting the dope on the Social of the Queen Esther Circle in the basement of the Methodist Episcopal Church, unable to sleep through a meeting of the Common Council on account of the noisy oratory caused by John Smith's application for a permit to build a house; making a note that a tugboat towed two barges loaded with coal up the river, that Mrs. Perkins spent a week-end with relatives in Hickville, that John Jones---- Oh help! Why go on? Ten years of it! I'm a broken man. God, how I used to pray that our Congressman would commit suicide, or the Mayor murder his wife--just to be able to write a real story!

EILEEN (_with a smile_). Is it as bad as that? But weren't there other things in the town--outside your work--that were interesting?

MURRAY (_decidedly_). No. Never anything new--and I knew everyone and every thing in town by heart years ago. (_With sudden bitterness._) Oh, it was my own fault. Why didn't I get out of it? Well, I didn't. I was always going to--to-morrow--and to-morrow never came. I got in a rut--and stayed put. People seem to get that way, somehow--in that town. It's in the air. All the boys I grew up with--nearly all, at least--took root in the same way. It took pleurisy, followed by T.B., to blast me loose.

EILEEN (_wonderingly_). But--your family--didn't they live there?

MURRAY. I haven't much of a family left. My mother died when I was a kid. My father--he was a lawyer--died when I was nineteen, just about to go to college. He left nothing, so I went to work on the paper instead. And there I've been ever since. I've two sisters, respectably married and living in another part of the state. We don't get along--but they are paying for me here, so I suppose I've no kick. (_Cynically._) A family wouldn't have changed things. From what I've seen that blood-thicker-than-water dope is all wrong. It's thinner than table-d'hôte soup. You may have seen a bit of that truth in your own case already.

EILEEN (_shocked_). How can you say that? You don't know----

MURRAY. Don't I, though? Wait till you've been here three months or four--when the gap you left has been comfortably filled. You'll see then!

EILEEN (_angrily, her lips trembling_). You must be crazy to say such things! (_Fighting back her tears._) Oh, I think it's hateful--when you see how badly I feel!

MURRAY (_in acute confusion. Stammering_). Look here, Miss Carmody, I didn't mean to---- Listen--don't feel mad at me, please. My tongue ran away with me. I was only talking. I'm like that. You mustn't take it seriously.

EILEEN (_still resentful_). I don't see how you can talk. You don't--you can't know about these things--when you've just said you had no family of your own, really.

MURRAY (_eager to return to her good graces_). No. Of course I don't know. I was just talking regardless for the fun of listening to it.

EILEEN (_after a pause_). Hasn't either of your sisters any children?

MURRAY. One of them has--two of them--ugly, squally little brats.

EILEEN (_disapprovingly_). You don't like babies?

MURRAY (_bluntly_). No. (_Then with a grin at her shocked face._) I don't get them. They're something I can't seem to get acquainted with.

EILEEN (_with a smile, indulgently_). You're a funny person. (_Then with a superior, motherly air._) No wonder you couldn't understand how badly I feel. (_With a tender smile._) I've four of them--my brothers and sisters--though they're not what you'd call babies, except to me. Billy is fourteen, Nora eleven, Tom ten, and even little Mary is eight. I've been a mother to them now for a whole year--ever since our mother died (_Sadly._) And I don't know how they'll ever get along while I'm away.

MURRAY (_cynically_). Oh, they'll--(_He checks what he was going to say and adds lamely_)--get along somehow.

EILEEN (_with the same superior tone_). It's easy for you to say that. You don't know how children grow to depend on you for everything. You're not a woman.

MURRAY (_with a grin_). Are you? (_Then with a chuckle._) You're as old as the pyramids, aren't you? I feel like a little boy. Won't you adopt me, too?

EILEEN (_flushing, with a shy smile_). Someone ought to. (_Quickly changing the subject._) Do you know, I can't get over what you said about hating your work so. I should think it would be wonderful--to be able to write things.

MURRAY. My job had nothing to do with writing. To write--really write--yes, that's something worth trying for. That's what I've always meant to have a stab at. I've run across ideas enough for stories--that sounded good to me, anyway. (_With a forced, laugh._) But--like everything else--I never got down to it. I started one or two--but--either I thought I didn't have the time or---- (_He shrugs his shoulders._)

EILEEN. Well, you've plenty of time now, haven't you?

MURRAY (_instantly struck by this suggestion_). You mean--I could write--up here? (_She nods. His face lights up with enthusiasm._) Say! That is an idea! Thank you! I'd never have had sense enough to have thought of that myself. (Eileen _flushes with pleasure._) Sure there's time--nothing but time up here----

EILEEN. Then you seriously think you'll try it?

MURRAY (_determinedly_). Yes. Why not? I've got to try and do something real some time, haven't I? I've no excuse not to, now. My mind isn't sick.

EILEEN (_excitedly_). That'll be wonderful!

MURRAY (_confidently_). Listen. I've had ideas for a series of short stories for the last couple of years--small town experiences, some of them actual. I know that life--too darn well. I ought to be able to write about it. And if I can sell one--to the _Post_, say--I'm sure they'd take the others, too. And then--I should worry! It'd be easy sailing. But you must promise to help--play critic for me--read them and tell me where they're rotten.

EILEEN (_pleased, but protesting_). Oh, no, I'd never dare. I don't know anything----

MURRAY. Yes, you do. You're the public. And you started me off on this thing--if I'm really starting at last. So you've got to back me up now. (_Suddenly._) Say, I wonder if they'd let me have a typewriter up here?

EILEEN. It'd be fine if they would. I'd like to have one, too--to practice. I learned stenography at a business college and then I had a position for a year--before my mother died.

MURRAY. We could hire one--I could. I don't see why they wouldn't allow it. I'm to be sent to one of the men's huts within the next few days, and you'll be shipped to one of the women's cottages within ten days. You're not sick enough to be kept here in bed, I'm sure of that.

EILEEN. I--I don't know----

MURRAY. Here! None of that! You just think you're not and you won't be. Say, I'm keen on that typewriter idea. They couldn't kick if we only used it during recreation periods. I could have it a week, and then you a week.

EILEEN (_eagerly_). And I could type your stories after you've written them! I _could_ help that way.

MURRAY (_smiling_). But I'm quite able---- (_Then seeing how interested she is he adds hurriedly._) That'd be great! It'd save so much time. I've always been a fool at a machine. And I'd be willing to pay whatever---- (Miss Gilpin _enters from the rear and walks towards them._)

EILEEN (_quickly_). Oh, no! I'd be glad to get the practice. I wouldn't accept---- (_She coughs slightly._)

MURRAY (_with a laugh_). Maybe, after you've read my stuff, you won't type it at any price.

MISS GILPIN. Miss Carmody, may I speak to you for a moment, please.

(_She takes_ Eileen _aside and talks to her in low tones of admonition._ Eileen's _face falls. She nods a horrified acquiescence._ Miss Gilpin _leaves her and goes into the office, rear._)

MURRAY (_as_ Eileen _comes back. Noticing her perturbation. Kindly_). Well? Now, what's the trouble?

EILEEN (_her lips trembling_). She told me I mustn't forget to shield my mouth with my handkerchief when I cough.

MURRAY (_consolingly_). Yes, that's one of the rules, you know.

EILEEN (_falteringly_). She said they'd give me--a--cup to carry around--(_She stops, shuddering._)

MURRAY (_easily_). It's not as horrible as it sounds. They're only little paste-board things you carry in your pocket.

EILEEN (_as if speaking to herself_). It's so horrible (_She holds out her hand to_ Murray.) I'm to go to my room now. Good night, Mr. Murray.

MURRAY (_holding her hand for a moment--earnestly_). Don't mind your first impressions here. You'll look on everything as a matter of course in a few days. I felt your way at first. (_He drops her hand and shakes his finger at her._) Mind your guardian, now! (_She forces a trembling smile._) See you at breakfast. Good night.

(Eileen _goes out to the hall in rear._ Miss Howard _comes in from the door just after her, carrying a glass of milk._)

MISS HOWARD. Almost bedtime, Mr. Murray. Here's your diet. (_He takes the glass. She smiles at him provokingly._) Well, is it love at first sight, Mr. Murray?

MURRAY (_with a grin_). Sure thing! You can consider yourself heartlessly jilted. (_He turns and raises his glass towards the door through which_ Eileen _has just gone, as if toasting her._)

"A glass of milk, and thou Coughing beside me in the wilderness-- Ah--wilderness were Paradise enow!"

(_He takes a sip of milk._)

MISS HOWARD (_peevishly_). That's old stuff, Mr. Murray. A patient at Saranac wrote that parody.

MURRAY (_maliciously_). Aha, you've discovered it's a parody, have you, you sly minx! (Miss Howard _turns from him huffily and walks back towards the office, her chin in the air._)

THE CURTAIN FALLS