On the very, next morning Mr. Jerningham, instead of going to Wall Street as was his custom, went instead to Mrs. Charlton Morris's Agency for Trained Nurses. An empress--no less--sat at a desk. She was not, however, one of those empresses who change the destiny of nations by their beauty. She had merely an arrogance more than royal. “I should like to see Mrs. Charlton Morris,” said Jerningham, briskly. “I am Mrs. Morris,” she said. You at once perceived that she was even more than imperial. She was a woman of forty, dark, slender, with shell-rimmed, round lenses that gave her that look between a Chinese philosopher and an ancient owl, which those tortoise-shell goggles always do. You also obtained the impression that a completely successful operation had removed Mrs. Morris's sense of humor. “I should like, if you please--” began Jerningham; but Mrs. Morris interrupted with an effect as of thrusting an icicle into the interior mechanism of a clock. “I beg your pardon, but we must know with whom we are dealing. What is the name, please?” “I prefer not to give you mine yet.” “Oh no, sir; I must know.” “Suppose I had given you a false one, how would you have been the wiser?” “Oh, but also you must give me the name of your doctor.” “He sent me here.” “And who is he, sir?” From her voice and her look you gathered that she was in charge of a hospital and was obtaining indispensable clinical data. “Madam,” said Jemingham, very coldly indeed, “you talk like the census man. Would you also like to know my age, sex, and color?” “We never,” retorted Mrs. Morris, imperturbably, “do business with strangers.” “Do you want me to get a letter from the President of the United States? I know him pretty well. Or from my bankers? They are known even in Brooklyn.” “We are here to supply trained nurses to people whose physicians we know.” A trained nurse must have unfailing good humor--it is part of her professional requirements. But a purveyor of trained nurses may permit herself much dignity, as though her mission in life consisted, of fitting nurses to cases--the best nurse for the worst case. “My doctor,” said Jerningham, “is Dr. Jewett.” It was the name of a very great surgeon. “Ah, yes. Surgical case! Yes! I have Miss Sennett and Miss Audrey. Dr. Jewett knows them very well.” “Kindly wait a second! I must see them myself. And it is not a surgical case. It is no case at all--yet. Show me the girls!” “Sir, this is not an intelligence-office; but--” “I know there is no intelligence in this office. This is merely the anteroom of a hospital and you are the superintendent. By rights you ought to be on the faculty. I am perfectly willing to pay for any loss of time or trouble to which you and the young ladies may be put.” “Must she be young?” asked Mrs. Morris. Her voice was at least thirty degrees below zero, for all that there was no devilishness about Mr. Jerningham. He said: