'Good-bye, good luck, lad. Eh, but you've changed already—like me. Send a wire to our hotel as soon as you're sure,' said Miss Henschil. 'What should I have done without you?'
'Or I?' said Conroy. 'But it's Nurse that's saving us really.'
'Then thank her,' said Miss Henschil, looking straight at him. 'Yes, I would. She'd like it.'
When Nurse Blaber came back after the parting at Templecombe her nose and her eyelids were red, but, for all that, her face reflected a great light even while she sniffed over The Cloister and the Hearth.
Miss Henschil, deep in a house furnisher's catalogue, did not speak for twenty minutes. Then she said, between adding totals of best, guest, and servants' sheets, 'But why should our times have been the same, Nursey?'
'Because a child is born somewhere every second of the clock,' Nurse Blaber answered. 'And besides that, you probably set each other off by talking and thinking about it. You shouldn't, you know.'
'Ay, but you've never been in Hell,' said Miss Henschil.
The telegram handed in at Hereford at 12.46 and delivered to Miss Henschil on the beach of a certain village at 2.7 ran thus:
'"Absolutely confirmed. She says she remembers hearing noise of accident in engine-room returning from India eighty-five."'
'He means the year, not the thermometer,' said Nurse Blaber, throwing pebbles at the cold sea.
