The only result of the conversation was that Mrs. Hazlitt began to suspect Lita of some such ill-bred passion--most unjustly. The whole subject had had merely a theoretical interest for Lita. She was too practical to be fired by these intangible heroes--dream, dead or dramatic. But now, even that first Sunday, as she stepped out of the infirmary into the bare March moonlight, she found that real life could hold the same thrill for her that dreams did for these others. "And that," she said to herself, "is where I have the best of it." II Lita had developed a technic by which she slept through the rising gong and for the next twenty-five minutes, allowing herself thus exactly five minutes to get up, dress and reach the dining room. But the morning after her friend's operation she woke with the gong, and five minutes later was on her way to the infirmary, first tying her tie and then smoothing down her hair as she went. As she ran up the stairs of the infirmary, a voice--whose owner must have recognized the almost inaudible patter of her feet--called to her from the small dining room of the cottage. She put her face, flushed with running, round the jamb of the door and saw Doctor Dacer seated at breakfast. The nurse was toasting bread on an electric toaster, and he was spreading a piece, just finished, with a thick crimson jam. "Damson," Lita said to herself. He looked at her. "Youth's a great thing," he said. "So the old are always saying," Lita answered. "But there's a catch in it; they get back at you for being young." "Does that mean you think I'm old?" Dacer asked patiently; and the nurse with the white hair exclaimed to herself "Goodness!" as if to her they both seemed about the same age. Lita cocked her head on one side. "Well," she said, "you are too old to be my equal--I mean contemporary. I mean contemporary," she added as they both laughed. Dacer, with a more complete answer, gave her the piece of toast he had been preparing. It was delicious--cool and smooth and sweet on top, and hot and buttery below. Lita consumed it in silence, and then with a deep sigh as she sucked a drop of jam from her forefinger, she said, "How noble that was! Sometimes I'm afraid I'm greedy." "Of course you are," said Dacer, as if greed were a splendid quality. "Sit down and have some coffee.... Have you been introduced to Miss Waverley? She hates men." "Goodness!" said Miss Waverley, glancing over her shoulder, as if it were mildly amusing that a man should think he knew anything about how she felt. "Or is it only doctors?" Dacer went on. "Men patients are worse," said Miss Waverley. "Don't go away," said Dacer to Lita. "You are always going away." "I came to see Aurelia." "I know, but it's customary to discuss the case first with the surgeon--in some detail too. Sit down."