"Well--of course--if you have to--" Dr. Carmon's gaze was reluctant and his brow puckered itself.... Standing beside the millionaire and looking up at him with the puckered forehead, he may have seemed an awkward and fussy and ineffectual little man. "He can't go!" It was Aunt Jane's voice, prompt and decisive--and the two men turned and looked at her. "He can't go," she repeated calmly. "He's got to have this on." She motioned to the paper she held in her hand. "He's got to have it on right away and go to bed." "But--" said Herman Medfield. "You can't go to bed and go to an office, too," replied Aunt Jane firmly. The millionaire looked at her. His glance travelled to Dr. Carmon's face. There was the merest hint of a twinkle behind the round professional glasses, and Herman Medfield regarded it. "Do I understand that this is _your_ order?" he asked politely. "It's better for you--not--to wait," admitted Dr. Carmon slowly. "You mean I'm taking chances?" "Yes." The millionaire's glance fell. "Very well. I shall do as you say, of course." He moved a little away and sat down. Aunt Jane's glance followed him--the look in it changed subtly. Something that had been in it up in the Children's Ward came back. "You can have your lawyer here," she said almost kindly. "We've got plenty of pens and paper and ink. And you can tell him all you want to without going to any office, I guess. Now I'll go get this made for you; and you be ready to have it on when I come back." She opened the door and went out. The two men looked at each other like two boys--and smiled. Both boys had had mothers. Herman Medfield's mother had worn a cap, an aristocratic affair of ribbons and lace that had little relation to the clear-starched whiteness of Aunt Jane's muslin strings; Dr. Carmon's mother had never known what it was to cover her smooth-parted hair under a cap--she had been a hard-working woman and far removed from Mrs. Oliver Medfield's way of life. But the two men, as they watched Aunt Jane disappear, had a sudden common sense of motherly protection and wisdom; and they smiled across to each other in almost shamefaced understanding. "It really _is_ better not to wait--" said the doctor, half apologetically: "It _might_ be all right. But we're taking chances enough as it is--without that." The professional look had come back to his face. He was looking absently before him at something unseen. XIII It was the sixth day, and Edith Dalton was doing well--the wound was doing well. As for the woman, she lay with indifferent eyes looking at the white wall of her room and waiting recovery. The only time that the look in the eyes changed was when Aunt Jane appeared in the doorway for a moment, or sat by her bed. Then it would deepen to a question and flicker toward hope. "Doing well?" Aunt Jane would say. "They give you good things to eat, don't they?" The woman smiled faintly. "Yes."