As he sat waiting for her in a room which beggared description by its untidiness, he felt distinctly nervous; but he was becoming accustomed to the fact that she had a disturbing or rather an exhilarating effect on his nerves. He was a trifle irritated at the fact, a trifle irritated with her because she had fulfilled his predictions. She was quite normal, and she made an excellent nurse. He had had to admit so much. But it was not her natural metier--that was--something very different. Possibly he was right. At any rate Helen, entering the room, stood absolutely aghast at its utter lack of comfort. She had been learning much about Peter Ramsay of which she had had no idea, when she came into touch with him in the hospital. To begin with, he was much younger than she had guessed him. She doubted if he was much older, perhaps not quite as old as she was herself. Clever as he was, he had most of the doctor's battle for name and fame before him; and there was a carelessness of public opinion, a certain roughness of very solid truth about him, joined to an utter disregard of his own comfort or that of any one else, except a patient's, which made her feel that here was a man who, above most men, needed a strong, capable, tactful woman to look after him privately, if he was to succeed publicly. And, though the sick adored him, and every one admitted his skill, he was not one of those men who appeal to the world at large. He was too swift, too incisive. No young woman would darn his stockings because he was a dear; the very maid-servants could leave his room like this! "I don't expect it's good," he said ruefully, pouring her out a cup of coffee, "but I'm not up to these things. My mother spoilt me. She died three years ago. She was a widow, and I was her only son." Helen, sipping at her coffee, told herself that explained a good deal. He was capable enough professionally, but--the coffee was execrable! "It isn't very nice," she admitted, "and why doesn't the housemaid----" "Oh! I can't have my things touched," he interrupted with a frown; adding as if to change an unwelcome subject, "So the arm is stiff. I'm sorry. We shall have to try electricity. There's a place in London----" He was off on some new cure, his red bronze eyes shining, his whole bearing full of confidence and vitality. She waited till the subject was exhausted, and then put down her cup, fixing her eyes humorously on his face. "And now, please, about that boy--No. 36 in the Queen's ward--I came to speak of him, you know." Peter Ramsay faced her half angrily; then he smiled. "Of course I knew, though I don't see why you wish to find out my opinion." "Possibly because I have an idea that your opinion may be right," she replied coolly. "What is it you wish to do? Something quite new, I expect." He frowned. "There you are mistaken. It--or something like it--has been done at Vienna." "By Pagenheim?"