“Shucks yourself!” scoffed Zillah Forsyth.  “What’s a silly beau or two up in Nova Scotia to a girl with looks like you?  You could have married that typhoid case a dozen times last winter if you’d crooked your little finger!  Why, the fellow was crazy about you.  And he was richer than Croesus.  What queered it?” she demanded bluntly.  “Did his mother hate you?”

Like one fairly cramped with astonishment Rae Malgregor doubled up very suddenly at the waist-line, and thrusting her neck oddly forward after the manner of a startled crane, stood peering sharply round the corner of the rocking-chair at Zillah Forsyth.

“Did his mother hate me?” she gasped.  “Did—­his—­mother—­hate—­me?  Well, what do you think?  With me who never even saw plumbing till I came down here, setting out to explain to her with twenty tiled bathrooms how to be hygienic though rich?  Did his mother hate me?  Well, what do you think?  With her who bore him, her who bore him, mind you, kept waiting down stairs in the hospital ante-room—­half an hour every day—­on the raw edge of a rattan chair—­waiting—­worrying—­all old and gray and scared—­while little young, perky, pink and white me is upstairs—­brushing her own son’s hair and washing her own son’s face—­and altogether getting her own son ready to see his own mother!  And then me obliged to turn her out again in ten minutes, flip as you please, for fear she’d stayed too long,—­while I stay on the rest of the night? Did his mother hate me!"

Stealthily as an assassin she crept around the corner of the rocking-chair and grabbed Zillah Forsyth by her astonished linen shoulder.

“Did his mother hate me?” she persisted mockingly.  “Did his mother hate me?  Well rather!  Is there any woman from here to Kamchatka who doesn’t hate us?  Is there any woman from here to Kamchatka who doesn’t look upon a trained nurse as her natural born enemy?  I don’t blame ’em!” she added chokingly.  “Look at the impudent jobs we get sent out on!  Quarantined upstairs for weeks at a time with their inflammable, diphtheritic bridegrooms—­while they sit down stairs—­brooding over their wedding teaspoons!  Hiked off indefinitely to Atlantic City with their gouty bachelor uncles!  Hearing their own innocent little sisters’ blood-curdling deathbed deliriums!  Snatching their own new-born babies away from their breasts and showing them, virgin-handed, how to nurse them better!  The impudence of it, I say!  The disgusting, confounded impudence!  Doing things perfectly—­flippantly—­right—­for twenty-five dollars a week—­and washing—­that all the achin’ love in the world don’t know how to do right—­just for love!”

Furiously she began to jerk her victim’s shoulder.  “I tell you it’s awful, Zillah Forsyth!” she insisted.  “I tell you I just won’t stand it!”

With muscles like steel wire Zillah Forsyth scrambled to her feet, and pushed Rae Malgregor back against the bureau.