“I forgot to explain,” he said, “that beef tea and red pepper’s the treatment for our young friend in there.  After a man has been burning his stomach daily with a quart or so of raw booze——­”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jane coolly.  Booze was not considered good form on the hill—­the word, of course.  There was plenty of the substance.

“Raw booze,” repeated the red-haired person.  “Nothing short of red pepper or dynamite is going to act as a substitute.  Why, I’ll bet the inside of that chap’s stomach is of the general sensitiveness and consistency of my shoe.”

“Indeed!” said Jane, coldly polite.  In Jane’s circle people did not discuss the interiors of other people’s stomachs.  The red-haired person sat on the table with a cup of bouillon in one hand and a cracker in the other.

“You know,” he said genially, “it’s awfully bully of you to come out and keep me company like this.  I never put in such a day.  I’ve given up fussing with the furnace and got out extra blankets instead.  And I think by night our troubles will be over.”  He held up the cup and glanced at Jane, who was looking entrancingly pretty.  “To our troubles being over!” he said, draining the cup, and then found that he had used the red pepper again by mistake.  It took five minutes and four cups of cold water to enable him to explain what he meant.

“By our troubles being over,” he said finally when he could speak, “I mean this:  There’s a train from town at eight to-night, and if all goes well it will deposit in the village half a dozen nurses, a cook or two, a furnace man—­good Heavens, I wonder if I forgot a furnace man!”

It seemed, as Jane discovered, that the telephone wires being cut, he had sent Higgins from the men’s ward to the village to send some telegrams for him.

“I couldn’t leave, you see,” he explained, “and having some small reason to believe that I am persona non grata in this vicinity I sent Higgins.”

Jane had always hated the name Higgins.  She said afterward that she felt uneasy from that moment.  The red-haired person, who was not bad-looking, being tall and straight and having a very decent nose, looked at Jane, and Jane, having been shut away for weeks—­Jane preened a little and was glad she had done her hair.

“You looked better the other way,” said the red-haired person, reading her mind in a most uncanny manner.  “Why should a girl with as pretty hair as yours cover it up with a net, anyhow?”

“You are very disagreeable and—­and impertinent,” said Jane, sliding off the table.

“It isn’t disagreeable to tell a girl she has pretty hair,” the red-haired person protested—­“or impertinent either.”

Jane was gathering up the remnants of her temper, scattered by the events of the day.

“You said I was a neurasthenic,” she accused him.  “It—­it isn’t being a neurasthenic to be nervous and upset and hating the very sight of people, is it?”