I came here, so to speak, in response to an ideal; not my ideal--I
never have any--but Laura Simonds's. She is my dearest friend and one
of the noblest girls you ever knew. She said the separation from the
world would do us both good, and so it might if she could have stayed
to keep me company. Now she has the world and I have the separation."

"She isn't here, then?"

"No, worse luck! She is always working and planning for the good of
others, but she is constantly meeting with ingratitude and
misunderstanding. She had just brought me here when she was
telegraphed for to turn about and go home. You see she had sent two
ailing slum children to be taken care of at her house, and it proved
to be scarlet fever, and, of course, her stepmother took it the first
thing--she's a hateful person and takes everything she can get--and
then the cook followed suit. Now they blame Laura and she has to find
trained nurses and settle everything before she comes back to me."

"Then you're not an invalid? I thought you were in pain and couldn't
reach the bell. That's the reason I looked in."

"Oh, dear, no, I was only yawning! I came for what Laura calls the
healing influence of solitude, but Laura thought as the place was so
expensive, and treatment was included, we'd better take Turkish baths,
massage, and electricity, they're so good for the complexion. I have a
little table to myself in the convalescents' dining-room and haven't
made any acquaintances. I can't stand their sweetbread complexions and
their double chins. The patients are all so fat they might sing Isaac
Watts' hymn in unison: 'Much of my time has run to waist.'"

"It is not an inspiring assemblage," I agreed, "though I haven't seen
them all together, as you have."

"And they think of nothing but themselves, which is exactly what I
want to think about--myself, I mean. There's one charming girl on this
floor. Something's the matter with her solar plexus and they won't
allow her to talk, so we have had some nice conversations in the
silent hour. They've told me now I mustn't call again; it seems that I
was too exciting. Tell me something about yourself, Vashti--I am sure
that's your name, or Semiramis or Zenobia or Judith, and if it isn't
one or another of those I don't want to hear what it is, for you
wouldn't look like it."

Just here a page brought in a letter which she glanced through with an
"Excuse me, please."

"Oh, dear! Now Laura can't come to-morrow! She i