However, toward morning, with what he felt was the entire pharmacopoeia inside him, and his tongue feeling like a tar roof, he made up his mind to stick to his story, at least as far as the young lady with the old-fashioned watch was concerned.  He had a sort of creed, which shows how young he was, that one should never explain to a girl.

There was another reason still.  There had been a faint sparkle in the eyes of the young lady with the watch while he was lying to her.  He felt that she was seeing him in heroic guise, and the thought pleased him.  It was novel.

To tell the truth, he had been getting awfully bored with himself since he left college.  Everything he tried to do, somebody else could do so much better.  And he comforted himself with this, that he would have been a journalist if he could, or at least have published a newspaper.  He knew what was wrong with about a hundred newspapers.

He decided to confess about Mabel, but to hold fast to journalism.  Then he lay in bed and watched for the Probationer to come back.

However, here things began to go wrong.  He did not see Jane Brown again.  There were day nurses and night nurses and reliefs, and internes and Staff and the Head Nurse and the First Assistant and—­everything but Jane Brown.  And at last he inquired for her.

“The first day I was in here,” he said to Miss Willoughby, “there was a little girl here without a cap.  I don’t know her name.  But I haven’t seen her since.”

Miss Willoughby, who, if she had been disappointed in love, had certainly had time to forget it, Miss Willoughby reflected.

“Without a cap?  Then it was only one of the probationers.”

“You don’t remember which one?”

But she only observed that probationers were always coming and going, and it wasn’t worth while learning their names until they were accepted.  And that, anyhow, probationers should never be sent to private patients, who are paying a lot and want the best.

“Really,” she added, “I don’t know what the school is coming to.  Since this war in Europe every girl wants to wear a uniform and be ready to go to the front if we have trouble.  All sorts of silly children are applying.  We have one now, on this very floor, not a day over nineteen.”

“Who is she?” asked Middleton.  He felt that this was the one.  She was so exactly the sort Miss Willoughby would object to.

“Jane Brown,” snapped Miss Willoughby.  “A little, namby-pamby, mush-and-milk creature, afraid of her own shadow.”

Now, Jane Brown, at that particular moment, was sitting in her little room in the dormitory, with the old watch ticking on the stand so she would not over-stay her off duty.  She was aching with fatigue from her head, with its smooth and shiny hair, to her feet, which were in a bowl of witch hazel and hot water.  And she was crying over a letter she was writing.