He reached out a square, competent hand, and put it over hers.

"We miss you in the Street," he said. "It's all sort of dead there since
you left. Joe Drummond doesn't moon up and down any more, for one thing.
What was wrong between you and Joe, Sidney?"

"I didn't want to marry him; that's all."

"That's considerable. The boy's taking it hard."

Then, seeing her face:-"But you're right, of course. Don't marry anyone unless you can't live
without him. That's been my motto, and here I am, still single."

He went out and down the corridor. He had known Sidney all his life.
During the lonely times when Max was at college and in Europe, he had
watched her grow from a child to a young girl. He did not suspect for a
moment that in that secret heart of hers he sat newly enthroned, in a glow
of white light, as Max's brother; that the mere thought that he lived in
Max's house (it was, of course Max's house to her), sat at Max's breakfast
table, could see him whenever he wished, made the touch of his hand on hers
a benediction and a caress.

Sidney finished folding linen and went back to the ward. It was Friday and
a visiting day. Almost every bed had its visitor beside it; but Sidney,
running an eye over the ward, found the girl of whom she had spoken to Le
Moyne quite alone. She was propped up in bed, reading; but at each new
step in the corridor hope would spring into her eyes and die again.