It had not occurred to him when Dr. Carmon had told him that he would probably have to undergo an operation and that he must have him at the House of Mercy for a few days to watch the case--it had not occurred to Herman Medfield that he would be a prisoner in the House of Mercy. He stepped impatiently to the window and looked out again and shrugged his shoulders.... It was all very well to have an operation--very likely he did need something of the sort.... But this coming beforehand and being shut up by himself--while his machinery was going, full tilt--all this fuss was ridiculous!... Down in the yard a maid was hanging out clothes; he watched her strong arms lift the wet sheets and swing them to the line; the wind blew her hair a little.... It was more than likely it was largely for effect--this having him come beforehand and shutting him up like a prisoner in a cell, and taking away his tobacco--it was more than likely that it was all for effect. Herman Medfield knew most things that could be known about advertising and about the value of advertising methods.... It might very well be a good card for the hospital and for Dr. Carmon to have him there, and to get the advertising that would come from having it known. The reporters were sure to get hold of it.... It flitted across his mind that there might be an interview.... It was years since Herman Medfield had granted an interview. But even a reporter would relieve the monotony a little. He glanced at his watch and felt a little cheered at the thought of the reporter. Then something occurred to him. He wondered whether the efficient Person, who seemed to have charge of the Berkeley House of Mercy, would _allow_ him to see a reporter!... He had eaten his breakfast--and, on the whole, he felt better for it--the eggs seemed to be taking care of themselves after all.... He foresaw that for the next three or four weeks he was not going to do what he chose, but what the Person thought best for him. Then his sense of humor came to the rescue. He recalled the cap strings--and smiled. It would not be such bad sport, matching one's wits against the cap strings.... But there was still the morning to get through! He wandered across and stopped again by the elaborate writing-desk and looked at it. He might write to some one. He sat down and drew a sheet of paper toward him and looked at the neatly cut inscription across the top--"The Berkeley House of Mercy"--his prison cell, he thought grimly. His fingers reached out for a half-smoked cigar--and drew back and smoothed the paper thoughtfully and took up the pen and dipped it in the ink and waited. He would write to Julian. He had not written to Julian in his own handwriting--not since the boy was a pupil at Exeter--that was ten years ago.... He was his own secretary those days.