The nurses are chatting amongst themselves at 3 a.m. while tending the patients.

DR. CHEEVER: Why all the talk, ladies?

SALLY: Whippet has a new gentleman.

DR. CHEEVER: A new gentleman? Are we to be losing our senior nurse?

WHIPPET: It is merely a passing fancy.

BELLE: Oh, no, surely you will marry this one.

DR. CHEEVER: The right offer is just around the corner. This could be he.

WHIPPET: One can certainly hope.

DR. CHEEVER: My Whippet will never marry, for she is married to me. She lives in this, our house. Her only thought is the care of these, our children.

SALLY: How old is he?

WHIPPET: I couldn’t say.

BELLE: Three and thirty like the last?

WHIPPET: Oh, older. I won’t be chosen. It is just another dream, but I will have some pretty times before the curtain call.

BELLE: Probably married.

WHIPPET: A widower.

SALLY: How sad. I like him.

DR. CHEEVER: Pray I don’t catch you in the morgue, my lady. Your indulgence could find its limit.

WHIPPET: Any one of us could meet our end from the latest influenza.

SALLY: And all be in the morgue together.

DR. CHEEVER: Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, is it?

WHIPPET: I am to have no peace.