“Resparation, very iregular,” was what she wrote.  She was not a particularly good speller.

After that Mr. Middleton slept for what he felt was a day and a night.  It was really ten minutes by the hunting-case watch.  Just long enough for the Senior Surgical Interne, known in the school as the S.S.I., to wander in, feel his pulse, approve of Jane Brown, and go out.

Jane Brown had risen nervously when he came in, and had proffered him the order book and a clean towel, as she had been instructed.  He had, however, required neither.  He glanced over the record, changed the spelling of “resparation,” arranged his tie at the mirror, took another look at Jane Brown, and went out.  He had not spoken.

It was when his white-linen clad figure went out that Middleton wakened and found it was the same day.  He felt at once like conversation, and he began immediately.  But the morphia did a curious thing to him.  He was never afterward able to explain it.  It made him create.  He lay there and invented for Jane Brown a fictitious person, who was himself.  This person, he said, was a newspaper reporter, who had been sent to report the warehouse fire.  He had got too close, and a wall had come down on him.  He invented the newspaper, too, but, as Jane Brown had come from somewhere else, she did not notice this.

In fact, after a time he felt that she was not as really interested as she might have been, so he introduced a love element.  He was, as has been said, of those who believe that nurses go into hospitals because of being blighted.  So he introduced a Mabel, suppressing her other name, and boasted, in a way he afterward remembered with horror, that Mabel was in love with him.  She was, he related, something or other on his paper.

At the end of two hours of babbling, a businesslike person in a cap—­the Probationer wears no cap—­relieved Jane Brown, and spilled some beef tea down his neck.

Now, Mr. Middleton knew no one in that city.  He had been motoring through, and he had, on seeing the warehouse burning, abandoned his machine for a closer view.  He had left it with the engine running, and, as a matter of fact, it ran for four hours, when it died of starvation, and was subsequently interred in a city garage.  However, he owned a number of cars, so he wasted no thought on that one.  He was a great deal more worried about his eyebrows, and, naturally, about his leg.

When he had been in the hospital ten hours it occurred to him to notify his family.  But he put it off for two reasons:  first, it would be a lot of trouble; second, he had no reason to think they particularly wanted to know.  They all had such a lot of things to do, such as bridge and opening country houses and going to the Springs.  They were really overwhelmed, without anything new, and they had never been awfully interested in him anyhow.

He was not at all bitter about it.

That night Mr. Middleton—­but he was now officially “Twenty-two,” by that system of metonymy which designates a hospital private patient by the number of his room—­that night “Twenty-two” had rather a bad time, between his leg and his conscience.  Both carried on disgracefully.  His leg stabbed, and his conscience reminded him of Mabel, and that if one is going to lie, there should at least be a reason.  To lie out of the whole cloth——!