“And if there hadn’t been an auto accident,” argued the White Linen Nurse just out of sheer inquisitiveness, “if there hadn’t been just this particular kind of an auto accident at this particular hour of this particular day of this particular month, with marigolds and--everything, you probably never would have realized that you _did_ need anybody?” “Maybe not,” admitted the Senior Surgeon. “U-m-m,” said the White Linen Nurse. “And if you’d happened to take one of the other girls to-day instead of me, why, then I suppose you’d have felt that _she_ was the one you really needed? And if you’d taken the Superintendent of Nurses instead of any of us girls, you might even have felt that _she_ was the one you most needed?” “Oh, hell!” said the Senior Surgeon. With surprising agility for a man with a sprained back he wrenched himself around until he faced her quite squarely. “Now see here, Miss Malgregor,” he growled, “for Heaven’s sake, listen to sense, even if you can’t talk it! Here am I, a plain professional man, making you a plain professional offer. Why in thunder should you try and fuss me all up because my offer isn’t couched in all the foolish, romantic, lace-paper sort of flub-dubbery that you think such an offer ought to be couched in, eh?” “Fuss you all up, sir?” protested the White Linen Nurse, with real anxiety. [Illustration: Plates in tint, engraved for ~The Century~ by H. C. Merrill and H. Davidson “‘THE CAR’S ON FIRE!’ HE MUMBLED. ‘YES, SIR,’ SAID THE WHITE LINEN NURSE. ‘WHY, DIDN’T YOU KNOW IT, SIR?’” DRAWN BY HERMAN PFEIFER] “Yes, fuss me all up,” snarled the Senior Surgeon, with increasing venom. “I’m no story-writer; I’m not trying to make up what might have happened a year from next February in a Chinese junk off the coast of--Nova Zembla to a Methodist preacher and a--and a militant suffragette. What I’m trying to size up is just what’s happened to you and me to-day. For the fact remains that it is to-day. And it is you and I. And there _has_ been an accident, and out of that accident--and everything that’s gone with it--I _have_ come out thinking of something that I never thought of before. And there _were_ marigolds,” he added with unexpected whimsicality. “You see, I don’t deny even the marigolds.” “Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse. “Yes, _what_?” jerked the Senior Surgeon. Softly the White Linen Nurse’s chin burrowed down a little closer against the sleeping child’s tangled hair. “Why--yes, thank you very much; but I never shall love again,” she said definitely. “Love?” gasped the Senior Surgeon. “Why, I’m not asking you to love me!” His face was suddenly crimson. “Why, I’d _hate_ it, if you--loved me! Why, I’d--” “O-h-h,” mumbled the White Linen Nurse in new embarrassment. Then suddenly and surprisingly her chin came tilting bravely up again. “What _do_ you want?” she asked. Helplessly the Senior Surgeon threw out his hands.