Nurse Watkins, before Desire’s entrance, had not been addressing envelopes.  She had been reading.  Her book lay open upon the window-sill and Desire, having good eyes, could read its title upside down.  It was not a title which she knew, nor, if titles tell anything, did it belong to a book which invited knowing.  Desire felt almost certain that it was not a book which Mary would care to read.  Still, one never could tell.  The professor had said nothing whatever about Mary’s literary taste.

Desire’s eyes strayed, vaguely, from the book to its owner.  Only Miss Watkins’ profile was visible but it was a profile well worth attention.  People who cannot choose their literature are often quite successful with their caps.  Miss Watkins’ cap was just right.  And her hair was certainly yellow.  Desire frowned.

Miss Watkins, looking up, caught the frown.

“Doctor really can’t be long now,” she drawled sympathetically.  Desire felt that the sympathy, like the assurance, was professional--an afterglow, perhaps of sympathy which had existed once, before life had overdrawn its account.  She felt, also, that Miss Watkins’ nose was decidedly good.  It was straight, with the nicest little blunt point; and her eyes were blue—­not misty blue, like the hills, but a passable blue for all that.  Her expression was cold and eminently superior. ("Frightfully nursey” was what Desire called it to herself.) Her voice was thin. (Desire was glad of that.)

“Doctor must have been kept somewhere,” said the nurse pursuing her formula.  “Won’t you sit near the window?  There’s a breeze.”

“Thank you.”  Desire moved to the window.  “You must find it very peaceful here—­after nursing overseas.”

Nurse Watkins tapped her full upper lip with her pen.  “Yes,” she said.  “It’s very dull.”  Desire smiled.  Her spirits had been rising ever since her entrance and she was now quite cheerful.  Pretty as Miss Mary Watkins undoubtedly was, there was a some-thing—­could it be possible that she chewed gum?  No, of course she could not chew gum.  And yet there was an impression of gum somewhere—­an insinuating certainty that she might chew gum on a dark night when no one was looking.  Desire heaved a little sigh of satisfaction and, leaning out, appeared to occupy herself with the passers-by.

“Aren’t Bainbridge streets wonderful?” she said.

Nurse Watkins’ mouth took on a discontented droop.  “The streets are all right,” she said, “only they don’t go anywhere.”

Desire laughed.  “Are you as bored as that?” she asked.

“Worse.  I wouldn’t stay here a minute if it weren’t—­I mean, if I hadn’t been advised to rest up a bit.”

Desire looked at her watch, and rose.  Now that her curiosity had been amply satisfied, she began to realize that curiosity is an undignified thing.  And also that she had not been the only person present to give way to it.