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.