"You don't need to thank him," replied Aunt Jane. "He won't expect any thanks, I guess." A nurse stood in the door. Aunt Jane's hand motioned to the woman. "This is Mrs. Pelton. She's going to be in Room 5. Take good care of her." The nurse held out her hand with a smile. And the little woman got up. "I've got a bag here somewhere--? That's it--yes. Thank you! I seem all kind of upset, somehow. I didn't know a hospital would be like this!" Aunt Jane watched her with a smile as she went from the room. There was a gentle look in her eyes. Then she got up, with the card in her hand, and moved toward the front room. She had become serene and austere. A tall, thin man rose courteously. "I am Dr. Carmon's patient. I understand a room has been reserved for me?" He looked up. "There's a room, yes," admitted Aunt Jane. The man's face waited. There was astonishment and a little amusement under its polite gaze. Aunt Jane rang the bell. "Won't you sit down," she indicated a chair. "Thank you. I prefer to keep standing--while I can." He said it smilingly. If there was an undertone of appeal for sympathy in the words, Aunt Jane's face ignored it. She turned to the nurse who entered. "Show Mr.--?" She consulted the card in her hand with elaborate care. "Mr.--? Medfield, yes, that's it--show Mr. Medfield to Suite A." The man bowed and took his coat on his arm. The nurse led the way. And Aunt Jane watched them from the room, holding the little card in her hand. A little later when she entered the name on the card in the hospital register, she added something after it in tiny hieroglyphics that made her smile as she closed the book and put it away on its shelf. VII Herman Medfield sat in the spacious sitting-room of Suite A, his paper spread out before him and his breakfast on the invalid table that had been wheeled up to the window. He had found the table with its tray of coffee and eggs and toast, an easy chair drawn up beside it, and the morning paper by his plate, ready for him when he came from his comfortable bath. He had opened the paper, but not the eggs.... He read a few lines in the paper and glanced down at the table with a little scowl and pushed it from him. Dr. Carmon had insisted on his being at the hospital for three or four days before the operation. He wanted to watch him and control conditions, he had said. It would make his decision easier. The millionaire sitting in the window frowned a little and drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair. He took up the paper and glanced at it again and threw it down. One of the conditions had been that he should have no cigars. He had understood and agreed to it. But this morning he was impatient with himself and annoyed with Dr. Carmon. These doctors had no end of theories--useless theories--that did more harm than good. He should be in no shape for an operation--if he could not keep his nerve better than this. He really needed a cigar.