“For Heaven’s sake, Rae, shut up!” she said.  “What in Creation’s the matter with you to-day?  I never saw you act so before!” With real concern she stared into the girl’s turbid eyes.  “If you feel like that about it, what in thunder did you go into nursing for?” she demanded not unkindly.

Very slowly Helene Churchill rose from her lowly seat by her precious book-case and came round and looked at Rae Malgregor rather oddly.  “Yes,” faltered Helene Churchill.  “What did you go into nursing for?” The faintest possible taint of asperity was in her voice.

Quite dumbly for an instant Rae Malgregor’s natural timidity stood battling the almost fanatic professional fervor in Helene Churchill’s frankly open face, the raw, scientific passion, of very different caliber, but no less intensity, hidden so craftily behind Zillah Forsyth’s plastic features.  Then suddenly her own hands went clutching back at the bureau for support, and all the flaming, raging red went ebbing out of her cheeks, leaving her lips with hardly blood enough left to work them.

“I went into nursing,” she mumbled, “and it’s God’s own truth,—­I went into nursing because—­because I thought the uniforms were so cute.”

Furiously, the instant the words were gone from her mouth, she turned and snarled at Zillah’s hooting laughter.

“Well, I had to do something!” she attested.  The defense was like a flat blade slapping the air.

Desperately she turned to Helene Churchill’s goading, faintly supercilious smile, and her voice edged suddenly like a twisted sword.  “Well, the uniforms are cute!” she parried.  “They are!  They are!  I bet you there’s more than one girl standing high in the graduating class to-day who never would have stuck out her first year’s bossin’ and slops and worry and death—­if she’d had to stick it out in the unimportant looking clothes she came from home in!  Even you, Helene Churchill, with all your pious talk,—­the day they put your coachman’s son in as new Interne and you got called down from the office for failing to stand when Mr. Young Coachman came into the room, you bawled all night,—­you did,—­and swore you’d chuck your whole job and go home the next day—­if it wasn’t that you’d just had a life-size photo taken in full nursing costume to send to your brother’s chum at Yale!  So there!”

With a gasp of ineffable satisfaction she turned from Helene Churchill.

“Sure the uniforms are cute!” she slashed back at Zillah Forsyth.  “That’s the whole trouble with ’em.  They’re so awfully—­masqueradishly—­cute!  Sure, I could have got engaged to the Typhoid Boy.  It would have been as easy as robbing a babe!  But lots of girls, I notice, get engaged in their uniforms, feeding a patient perfectly scientifically out of his own silver spoon, who don’t seem to stay engaged so especially long in their own street clothes, bungling just plain naturally with their own knives and forks!  Even you, Zillah Forsyth,” she hacked, “even you who trot round like the Lord’s Anointed in your pure white togs, you’re just as Dutchy looking as anybody else, come to put you in a red hat and a tan coat and a blue skirt!”