“You’re an awfully good fellow, John,” said the little nurse, pleasantly.  “I know I’ve been hurting you a bit.  Please, I’m sorry the medicine tastes so badly.”

The only thing I could do was to lift up one of her hands and kiss a white kid glove, faute de mieux.  It was stretched over her fingers, however, and hence was part of her.

When we reached the restaurant she selected a table and placed herself so that she might see as many diners as possible.  If there had been people outside of Paradise, Eve would certainly have peeped through the palings.  I handed her the bill of fare and she begged for Cape Cods.

“You order the rest of it,” she commanded.  “I’m going to look.”

While I discussed dishes with the waiter her eyes wandered over the big room, taking in pretty dresses and becoming coiffures.  Then she watched the leader of the little orchestra, who certainly wielded a masterful bow, and gave a little sigh of content.

“We really could afford this at least once or twice a week,” I sought to tempt her, “and the theatre besides, and—­and—­”

She looked at me very gravely, moving a little from side to side, as if my head presented varied and interesting aspects.

“That’s one of the troubles with you,” she finally said.  “You have some money, a nice reasonable amount of money, and you can afford some things, and I can’t tell whether you’re going to be an amateur or a professional.”

“An amateur?” I repeated, dully.

“I mean no reflection upon your abilities,” she explained, hurriedly.  “I know all that you have done in London and in Edinburgh, and these German places.  You can tack more than half the letters of the alphabet after your name if you choose to.  But I don’t quite see what you are doing in New York.”

“You wrote that you were coming to study nursing here,” I reminded her.  “This is now a great centre of scientific research, thanks to the princely endowments of the universities.  Have you the slightest notion of how many years I have loved you, Dora?”

“Not quite so loud,” she reproved me.  “I believe it began in dear old St. John’s.  You were about fourteen when you declared your passion, and I wore pigtails and exceedingly short skirts.  My legs, also, were the spindliest things.”

“Yes, that was the beginning, Dora, and it has continued ever since.  During the years I spent abroad we kept on writing.  It seemed to me that the whole thing was settled.  I’ve always had your pictures with me; the first was little Dora, and the other one was taken when you first did your hair up and wore long dresses.  During all that time St. John’s was the garden of the Hesperides, and you were the golden thing I was toiling for.  When you wrote that you were coming to New York I took the next boat over.  Then you told me I must wait until you graduated.  And now, after your commencement, I hoped, indeed I hoped—­I’m afraid I’m worrying you, dear.”