Nurse Lang by Jean S. Macleod Page A

matter-of-fact tone. “The next step is to get on with getting well. The sooner all this is over the better I shall like it,” he added with a distasteful glance round the sick-room. “You can tell Grant I’m ready to go over to the hospital right away.”
    “Grant won’t be hurried,” she said.
    “The devil he won’t!” Philip grinned. “You can tell him that I have an incentive now!”
    “That—wouldn’t make any difference,” she returned hollowly. “Grant will do things in his own way. I should imagine he always has done.”
    “And there you would be right!” There was a sort of forced gaiety about Philip now. “He knows his own mind so well, but then so do I! I’ve no intention of waiting for weeks while things develop to Grant’s satisfaction.”
    It was useless to argue with him in this mood, and Moira let the matter rest there. She tidied the room and remade the bed so that her patient could settle to sleep, but relaxation seemed far enough away from Philip now. He was more than eager to meet the future, and he seemed impatient until he knew that Grant had returned.
    Moira heard Grant’s voice in the hall, but she knew that Philip would be instantly suspicious of some hitch if she went down to meet his brother. She found herself collecting magazines into a neat pile with a sudden trembling inside her, an inner excitement for which there could be no accounting, and then Grant strode into the room, looking as if he had forced himself to relax just outside the door.
    “Well,” he asked, crossing to the bed, “what did you think of Sir Archibald?”
    “He didn't look so very much like a doctor to me,” Philip said lightly, “but if he can do the job I’m all for him!”
    “So am I. He’s the greatest living authority on the subject and a man of infinite skill. He should give you complete confidence.”
    Philip allowed his assurance to slide into a lengthy silence and Grant passed Moira and went to stand beside the window, looking down on the wind-swept park.
    “Grant,” Philip said almost aggressively, “Moira has promised to marry me.”
    His brother swung round from the window, his eyes flaming in a face that had gone the color of chalk.
    “Are you mad?” he demanded, and he was looking at Moira and not Philip. “Are you both quite mad?”
    “Not as we see it,” Philip said casually. “I think we are doing the only sane thing. We’re making sure of the future.”
    “When did this happen?” he asked in a voice which Moira would never have recognized as his.
    “As soon as your back was turned!” Philip laughed. “These things happen quickly, you know.”
    Grant did not answer him. He strode from the room without looking at Moira again and she was left staring at Philip as if she could not quite believe the events of the past few minutes.
    “I’ll go to sleep if you make it worth my while.” The grey eyes met hers demandingly. “I want you to kiss me, of your own accord.”
    She bent and put her lips to his forehead.
    “Will that do?” she asked.
    “For just now,” he agreed, and let her go.
    She found Grant out in the stables, saddling a horse.
    “Grant, I—may I speak to you?”
    He did not turn.
    “Go ahead,” he said.
    “I—you’re making it very difficult. It’s—about Philip.”
    He moved then, turning towards her, and when she saw his face she drew back. It was ravaged with anger, as dark and impassioned as Philip’s had been when he had first declared that life had passed him by.
    “You and Philip can’t do this to me!” he said between clenched teeth. “If you’ve agreed to marry him out of sympathy, you’re a fool!”
    “No, that wasn’t the reason!” The calmness of despair was in Moira’s voice now. “It was only because—because—”
    He reached her in one swift, determined stride.
    “Because you are in love with him? Tell me that!” He caught her by the arms, as if he were about to shake her. “Why don’t you say it? Why are you