Here, going down on her knees, she peered carefully under the bed; then, still kneeling, she passed her eyes over every square inch of the four shiny yellow walls. When they encountered a paper bag hanging on a nail to one side of the narrow chiffonier, she scuffled angrily to her feet. “I’m gonna report you,” she cried, glaring at me. “It’s positive against our rules—guests drivin’ nails in the walls. This ain’t no tenement. Seems like you can’t teach some folks nothin’.” “Suppose you look at that nail,” I advised her, as I removed the paper bag. “You can see for yourself that it has been here since before the walls were painted. It is covered with the same coat of yellow paint. If you draw it out ever so carefully it would mar the wall.” “Well, you mustn’t hang nothin’ on it,” she told me. “What am I to do with my winter hat?” I asked, as I slipped a quarter into the pocket of her apron. “It is too large to get in the closet, and too good to throw away. Besides, that manila bag is so near the color of the wall it is scarcely noticeable.” She put her hand into her pocket and felt the size of the coin. “Well, if you didn’t drive the nail I won’t say nothin’ about the other things,” she agreed. Then she added cautiously: “But you’ll have to be on the lookout when Miss Digges comes round. She don’t allow nothin’ hung on the walls.” “Who is Miss Digges?” “She’s the head one, the manager. And you never know when she’s comin’.” She snatched the door open, and popping her head out looked up and down the hall. “I caught her once, just like that. She was followin’ me around. Be careful about that hat now.” With that parting injunction she took her departure. Her hand was in the pocket of her apron and her gaudily painted face wreathed with smiles. Money talks! That midday dinner was a fairly good meal. After a good soup there was chicken fricassee, a vegetable, a salad, and ice-cream. The waitresses all wore clean aprons and the table linen was fresh. During the first part of the meal I realized an indefinite feeling of discomfort that I had attributed to “nerves” had become a headache. As dinner went on instead of the pain becoming less it increased. The little waitress placed my ice-cream before me and I glanced up and smiled at her. That movement of the muscles in my face explained my headache. My skin felt so tightly stretched that it seemed as though I should have heard it crinkle. Leaving the ice-cream untouched I excused myself and hurried up to my room. If I could only take my erysipelas medicine in time it would lessen the horror, perhaps prevent it entirely. Fumbling in the semidarkness of the hall I got my key in the lock of my room door, then found that I could neither turn it nor get it out. I must have struggled with that key for twenty minutes. Then going to the elevator I asked the operator if he could get it out.