The nurse, diffusing a faint odor of antiseptics, came from Doctor Foerder's private hospital, laid aside her bonnet and veil and pausing an instant to give a woman's touch to her hair, quietly and deftly set the room in order.
All that afternoon the colonel lay in his darkened bedroom, fighting the battle of his life. He lay so still that the nurse almost fancied him asleep, so regular was his breathing. Once he broke the silence by asking the time.
"Twenty minutes after three," the nurse responded, glancing at her little watch.
"Some of the conventions, then," the colonel said, "are over. I wonder why they don't send me word."
The nurse did not notice his speech, and he added:
"Pardon me, you doubtless are not interested in politics."
The talking brought on a spasm of dyspnœa, and the colonel struggled so painfully for his breath that the nurse had to prop him up with pillows in a sitting posture, as those who are afflicted with asthma pass their nights, finding it easier thus to breathe. The colonel begged the nurse's pardon, as if he had committed some indelicacy.
