“Well, I’ve brought some things for her,” said Gila, indicating the large box at her feet.  “You can take it inside and open it.”

The nurse opened the door a little wider, looked at the small, imperious personage in fur trappings, and then down at the box.  She hesitated a moment in a kind of inward fury, then swung the door a little wider open and stepped back: 

“You can set it inside if you wish, or wait till one of the men comes by,” she said, coolly, and deliberately walked back in the room and busied herself with the medicine-glasses.

Gila stared at her haughtily a moment, but there wasn’t much satisfaction in wasting her glares on that white-linen back, so she stooped and dragged in the box.  She came and stood by the bed, staring down apprizingly at the sick girl.

Bonnie Brentwood turned her head wearily and looked up at her with a puzzled, half-annoyed expression.  She had paid no heed to the little altercation at the door.  Her apathy toward life was great.  She was lying on the borderland, looking over and longing to go where all her dear ones had gone.  It wearied her inexpressibly that they all would insist on doing things to call her back.

“Is your name Brentwood?” asked Gila, in the sharp, high key so alien to a hospital.

Bonnie recalled her spirit to this world and focused her gaze on the girl as if to try and recall where she had ever met her.  Bonnie’s abundant hair was spread out over the pillow, as the nurse had just prepared to brush it.  It fell in long, rich waves of brightness and fascinating little rings of gold about her face.  Gila stared at it jealously, as if it were something that had been stolen from her.  Her own hair, cloudy and dreamy, and made much of with all that skill and care could do, was pitiful beside this wonderful gold mane with red and purple shadows in its depths, and ripples and curls at the ends.  Wonderful hair!

The face of the girl on the pillow was perfect in form and feature.  Regular, delicate, refined, and lovely!  Gila knew it would be counted rarely beautiful, and she was furious!  How had that upstart of a college boy dared to send her here to see a beauty!  What had he meant by it?

By this time the girl on the bed had summoned her soul back to earth for the nonce, and answered in a cool, little tone of distance, as she might have spoken to her employer, perhaps; or, in other circumstances, to the stranger begging for work on her door-sill—­Bonnie was a lady anywhere—­“Yes, I am Miss Brentwood.”

There was no noticeable emphasis on the “Miss,” but Gila felt that the pauper had arisen and put herself on the same level with her, and she was furious.