“None of us likes to see it, girl,” he said.  “I’m an old man, and I’ve never got used to it.  What do they send you to eat?”

“The food’s all right,” she said rather drearily.  “I’m not hungry—­that’s all.  How long do you think——­”

The Staff Doctor, who was putting an antiseptic gauze cap over his white hair, ran a safety pin into his scalp at that moment and did not reply at once.  Then, “Perhaps—­until morning,” he said.

He held out his arms for the long, white, sterilised coat, and a moment later, with his face clean-washed of emotion, and looking like a benevolent Turk, he entered the sick room.  The Nurse was just behind him, with an order book in one hand and a clean towel over her arm.

Billy Grant, from his bed, gave the turban a high sign of greeting.

“Allah—­is—­great!” he gasped cheerfully.  “Well, doctor—­I guess it’s all—­over but—­the shouting.”

II

Some time after midnight Billy Grant roused out of a stupor.  He was quite rational; in fact, he thought he would get out of bed.  But his feet would not move.  This was absurd!  One’s feet must move if one wills them to!  However, he could not stir either of them.  Otherwise he was beautifully comfortable.

Faint as was the stir he made the Nurse heard him.  She was sitting in the dark by the window.

“Water?” she asked softly, coming to him.

“Please.”  His voice was stronger than it had been.

Some of the water went down his neck, but it did not matter.  Nothing mattered except the Lindley Grants.  The Nurse took his temperature and went out into the hall to read the thermometer, so he might not watch her face.  Then, having recorded it under the nightlight, she came back into the room.

“Why don’t you put on something comfortable?” demanded Billy Grant querulously.  He was so comfortable himself and she was so stiffly starched, so relentless of collar and cap.

“I am comfortable.”

“Where’s that wrapper thing you’ve been wearing at night?” The Nurse rather flushed at this.  “Why don’t you lie down on the cot and take a nap?  I don’t need anything.”

“Not—­not to-night.”

He understood, of course, but he refused to be depressed.  He was too comfortable.  He was breathing easily, and his voice, though weak, was clear.

“Would you mind sitting beside me?  Or are you tired?  But of course you are.  Perhaps in a night or so you’ll be over there again, sleeping in a nice white gown in a nice fresh bed, with no querulous devil——­”

“Please!”

“You’ll have to be sterilised or formaldehyded?”

“Yes.”  This very low.

“Will you put your hand over mine?  Thanks.  It’s—­company, you know.”  He was apologetic; under her hand his own burned fire.  “I—­I spoke to the Staff about that while you were out of the room.”