rations had not been entirely fair.

He was, of course, not in the slightest degree in love with her. He
had only seen her once, and then he had had a broken leg and a
quarter grain of morphia and a burned moustache and no eyebrows left
to speak of.

But there was the sign. It was hung to a nail beside the elevator
shaft. And far beyond, down the corridor, was somebody in a blue
dress and no cap. It might be anybody, but again----

Twenty-two looked around. The elevator had just gone down at its
usual rate of a mile every two hours. In the convalescent parlour,
where private patients _en negligee_ complained about the hospital
food, the nurse in charge was making a new cap. Over all the
hospital brooded an after-luncheon peace.

Twenty-two wheeled up under the sign and considered his average of
ninety-seven per cent. Followed in sequence these events: (a)
Twenty-two wheeled back to the parlour, where old Mr. Simond's cane
leaned against a table, and, while engaging that gentleman in
conversation, possessed himself of the cane. (b) Wheeled back to the
elevator. (c) Drew cane from beneath blanket. (d) Unhooked sign with
cane and concealed both under blanket. (e) Worked his way back along
the forbidden territory, past I and J until he came to H ward.

Jane Brown was in H ward.

She was alone, and looking very professional. There is nothing quite
so professional as a new nurse. She had, indeed, reached a point
where, if she took a pulse three times, she got somewhat similar
results. There had been a time when they had run something like
this: 56--80--120----

Jane Brown was taking pulses. It was a visiting day, and all the
beds had fresh white spreads, tucked in neatly at the foot. In the
exact middle of the centre table with its red cloth, was a vase of
yellow tulips. The sun came in and turned them to golden flame.

Jane Brown was on duty alone and taking pulses with one eye while
she watched the visitors with the other. She did the watching better
than she did the pulses. For instance, she was distinctly aware that
Stanislas Krzykolski's wife, in the bed next the end, had just slid
a half-dozen greasy cakes, sprinkled with sugar, under his pillow.
She knew, however, that not only grease but love was in those cakes,
and she did not intend to confiscate them until after Mrs.
Krzykolski had gone.

More visitors came. Shuffling and self-conscious mill-workers,
walking on their toes; draggled women; a Chinese boy;