And
the vaults and upper floors of the Royal College of Surgeons were at
Rossiter's disposal, with Professor Keith to co-operate. Never had
his house in Portland Place--to be accurate the Park Crescent end
thereof--seemed so conveniently situated, or its studio-laboratory
so well designed. "Air-raids? Pooh! Just about one chance in a
million we should be struck. Besides: can't think of that, when so
much is at stake. That's a fine phrase, 'Menders of the Maimed.'
Just what we want to be! No more artificial limbs if we can help you
to grow your own new legs and arms--perhaps. At any rate, mend up
those that are a hopeless mash. Grand work! Only bright thing in the
War. Now dear, are you ready with that lymph?"
And she was. Never had Linda been so happy. She overcame her disgust
at the sight of blood, at monkeys, dogs, and humans under
anaesthetics, at yellow fat, gleaming sinew, and blood-stained bone.
She was careful as a washer-up. The services of Mrs. Adams were
enlisted, and she was more deft even than her mistress; and the
butler, who was by this time a regular hospital dresser, greatly
admired her pretty arms when they were bared to the elbow, and her
flushed cheeks when she took a humble part in some tantalizing
adjustment.
"I'm some use to you after all," Linda would say when they retired
from the studio for a rest and she made the tea.
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