But, as she said the other day, putting on
what Evan calls her "capability-for-better-things" air, "One's scope is
so limited here, and one never can tell whom one may meet in New York,"
which is, of course, perfectly true.
It was only last night that father returned from the hospital, distressed
and perplexed, and called me into the office. A young woman of
twenty-two, that I know very well, of a plain middle-class family over in
town, had, it seems, sent her name for admission to the training-school
for nurses. Father, in his friendly way, stopped at the house on his way
home to talk with her about the matter, and found from a little sister,
who was washing dishes, that the mother of the family was ill and being
cared for by a neighbour. Presently, down tripped the candidate for
nursing, well dressed, well shod, and with pink, polished finger nails.
Father, wondering why she did not care for her mother, asked his usual
questions: "What leads you to wish to take up nursing? Are you interested
in medicine, and fond of caring for the sick? For you should be, to enter
such an exacting life." She seemed to misunderstand him altogether and
take his inquiry for prying. She coloured, bit her lip, then lost her
head and blurted out: "Interested in the sick! Of course not. Who could
be, for they are always so aggravating. I don't mean to stay so very long
at it, but it's a good chance to go into some swell family, and maybe
marry and get into society.
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