The Probationer leaned her nose against the window and looked down. A coloured man was being carried in on a stretcher. Although she did not know it--indeed, never did know it--the coloured gentleman in question was one Augustus Baird. Soon afterward Twenty-two squeaked--his chair needed oiling--squeaked back to his lonely room and took stock. He found that he was rid of Mabel, but was still a reporter, hurt in doing his duty. He had let this go because he saw that duty was a sort of fetish with the Probationer. And since just now she liked him for what she thought he was, why not wait to tell her until she liked him for himself? He hoped she was going to like him, because she was going to see him a lot. Also, he liked her even better than he had remembered that he did. She had a sort of thoroughbred look that he liked. And he liked the way her hair was soft and straight and shiny. And he liked the way she was all business and no nonsense. And the way she counted pulses, with her lips moving and a little frown between her eyebrows. And he liked her for being herself--which is, after all, the reason why most men like the women they like, and extremely reasonable. The First Assistant loaned him Browning that afternoon, and he read "Pippa Passes." He thought Pippa must have looked like the Probationer. The Head was a bit querulous that evening. The Heads of Training Schools get that way now and then, although they generally reveal it only to the First Assistant. They have to do so many irreconcilable things, such as keeping down expenses while keeping up requisitions, and remembering the different sorts of sutures the Staff likes, and receiving the Ladies' Committee, and conducting prayers and lectures, and knowing by a swift survey of a ward that the stands have been carbolised and all the toe-nails cut. Because it is amazing the way toe-nails grow in bed. The Head would probably never have come out flatly, but she had a wretched cold, and the First Assistant was giving her a mustard footbath, which was very hot. The Head sat up with a blanket over her shoulders, and read lists while her feet took on the blush of ripe apples. And at last she said: "How is that Probationer with the ridiculous name getting along?" The First Assistant poured in more hot water. "N. Jane?" she asked. "Well, she's a nice little thing, and she seems willing. But, of course----" The Head groaned. "Nineteen!" she said. "And no character at all. I detest fluttery people. She flutters the moment I go into the ward." The First Assistant sat back and felt of her cap, which was of starched tulle and was softening a bit from the steam. She felt a thrill of pity for the Probationer. She, too, had once felt fluttery when the Head came in. "She is very anxious to stay," she observed. "She works hard, too. I----"