“How?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How’ll you inform him?”
“By going up to his room, of course.”
“Oh.” Hollander’s gaze wavered about at the line of her chin. “Then I’ll just baby Herb along until you get back down here with the doctor.”
“The doctor and I will undoubtedly be back before Mr. Endicott actually does come to.”
“Uh-huh. Good kid, Herb.”
She threw out a tentative feeler.
“You and he are great friends, Mr. Hollander?”
“Buddies. War buddies.”
Miss Murrow’s thoughts fled back along old trails. “How splendid! So few war friendships have really lasted, Mr. Hollander. I know it’s been so in my case, and with so many, many others.” A faint flush crept over her palish cheeks and made her look rather young again. “There was a girl with me in hospital at Chaumont, and we just knew we were going to be friends for life, but she lives out in Akron, Ohio.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We wrote quite regularly for a while after we got back from France—we both sailed from Brest on the Amerika —but then it sort of dwindled. Postal cards—picture postal cards at Christmas. Last year we didn’t even send any. I wonder what she’d be like if I saw her again. Have you ever wondered about people whom you’ve once been very fond of, that way—about whether they change in time, I mean?”