Allan Russell, advertising man, left Hippocrates Hospital yesterday
afternoon, completely cured of a stubborn case of nervous debility
that at first puzzled the doctors. With him, in a taxicab, was Miss
Candida Cumnor, one of the nurses, still in her uniform. They went
to the Little Church Around the Corner and were married. After the
ceremony, Mrs. Russell took her husband’s temperature with a clinical
thermometer. It was Centigrade A, or whatever the normal reading is.
She did not test his pulse, which was probably excusably fluttered.
Even a hardened reporter, who horned in on this story by accident, was
stirred by the sight of the bride in her crisp white linen. She has
golden-bronzy hair and indigo eyes, or they looked that way in the
twilight of the church. But what’s the use? She is now Mrs. Russell.
During Mr. Russell’s illness Miss Candida had charge of the case. She
sympathized with his business problem--Dr. Nichevo, the Hippocrates
expert on nervous mechanics, said that he had been run down by
too constant intercourse with advertising agencies. She took his
temperature soothingly with that cold little glass tube. But what she
took away with one hand she gave back with the other. When her palm
floated like a water-lily across his commerce-heated brow his mind grew
calm, but his heart was caloric. As he became stronger she assisted him
with advertising layouts which were spread on the bed, and they pored
over them together. Why is it, we wonder, that reporters never have
time to be taken ill?
Mr. Russell is Advertising Manager of the Ginger Cubes Corporation. He
and his wife expect to spend their honeymoon hunting an apartment.
“Cupid is the best doctor,” said Mr. Russell as they left the church.
“I intend to keep the thermometer as a souvenir.”