Flash and Filigree Read Free

day-room walls.
    “We see,” said the Mexican gardener, trying to smile a little.
    “Garcia, please, ” said Miss Mintner in her child’s voice, pouting her lips at him, then coming forward on die sill again all confidence and animation. “She’s going Sunday. It’s true this time!”
    Garcia turned away, vague in disbelief and calculation, his lips pursed in a whisper of Spanish. “Two day,” he said coming back to her.
    Barbara Mintner was ready to clap her hands. “Dr. Warner said so this morning! Isn’t it wonderful?”
    “Yes, he say that about everyone,” said the gardener without smiling.
    “But it’s true this time, Garcia,” Miss Mintner pouting, almost pleading, “it really is! And wouldn’t it be a shame not to have them on the last two days, after doing it all along!”
    “Three day,” said Garcia, “three day, count today.”
    “All right, silly, three days. Please try! It doesn’t have to be freesias for Harrison, but please get the roses. Remember, just two more days!”
    “Two day,” said the gardener shaking his head, looking back down to where his hand turned the dark loam with a trowel.
    Before Barbara Mintner could follow it up, the West Hall door sounded opening, and swift creped-steps could be heard in the corridor outside the day-room wall.
    “Please, Garcia,” she said quickly, making her voice a stage whisper, “you won’t be sorry, I promise you.” And she brought the two paneled-windows in slowly, smiling a secret at him as he watched from below, herself now on tip-toe, leaning forward slightly, the motion timed so that she was just closing the latch when Head Nurse Eleanor Thorne swung the day-room door open.
    “And what’s Mister Garcia up to now?” said Nurse Thorne taking it all in without breaking her stride before she reached the center of the room.
    “Oh, he’s such a baby,” said Barbara Mintner turning to half face her. “Afraid someone’s going to spoil his precious playthings.”
    Eleanor Thorne scoffed. “I dare say. I’m only too glad you didn’t say work things!”
    The soft brilliance of the Pacific morning lay behind Barbara Mintner and etched a golden haze along the proud lines of her head and shoulders.
    “Your hair is quite nice that way,” said Eleanor Thorne abruptly and, quickly rushing on with a gesture toward the low leather couch where Mr. Treevly lay: “How is he?”
    “He’s coming around,” said Miss Mintner, “while ago his respiration—” and even as she pronounced the word, Mr. Treevly raised his head, then lowered it again very slowly.
    “Feeling better?” said Nurse Thorne, walking briskly toward his couch against the far wall.
    “It’s my head,” said Mr. Treevly, passing a hand over his closed eyes.
    Near the window, Barbara Mintner muffled a snicker.
    “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Nurse Thorne archly, after throwing a sharp glance at Miss Mintner.
    “I’m going to lunch now,” she continued to the girl, turning and stepping precisely past her. “I’ll stop at the Dispensary and have Albert bring over some bromide. I’m going to the cafeteria, and then to Bullock’s . . .” She finished in a masculine tone over her shoulder in the open door: “If the bromide doesn’t bring it off, give him a sodo-injection. Two c.c.’s. I’ll be back at 12:20.”
    “Yes, Miss Thorne,” said Babs Mintner, lowering her eyes as if she had been painfully kissed.
    Mr. Treevly half rose as the door closed behind Eleanor Thorne. “What is it?” he said. His voice was strained and feeble, as though it hurt him to speak. “What’s up?” And now, he seemed to take account of his surroundings for the first time.
    “It’s all right,” sighed Miss Mintner, “you just lie back and rest a few minutes. Everything is all right.” She continued to look out of the window, across the rolling lawn and through the trees beyond. She hummed softly to herself.
    Mr. Treevly slowly pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the