SLOAN (_looking around him_). Couldn't be more pleasant, I must say--light and airy. (_He walks to where he can take a peep into the dining-room._) Ah, they're all at breakfast, I see. STANTON (_smiling_). Yes, and with no lack of appetite, let me tell you. (_With a laugh of proud satisfaction._) They'd sure eat us out of house and home at one sitting, if we'd give them the opportunity. (_To his assistant._) Wouldn't they, Doctor? SIMMS (_with his abashed grin_). You bet they would, sir. SLOAN (_with a smile_). That's fine. (_With a nod towards the dining-room._) The ones in there are the sure cures, aren't they? STANTON (_a shadow coming over his face_). Strictly speaking, there are no sure cures in this disease, Mr. Sloan. When we permit a patient to return to take up his or her activities in the world, the patient is what we call an arrested case. The disease is overcome, quiescent; the wound is healed over. It's then up to the patient to so take care of himself that this condition remains permanent. It isn't hard for them to do this, usually. Just ordinary, bull-headed common sense--added to what they've learned here--is enough for their safety. And the precautions we teach them to take don't diminish their social usefulness in the slightest, either, as I can prove by our statistics of former patients. (_With a smile._) It's rather early in the morning for statistics, though. SLOAN (_with a wave of the hand_). Oh, you needn't. Your reputation in that respect, Doctor---- (Stanton _inclines his head in acknowledgment._ Sloan _jerks his thumb towards the dining-room_.) But the ones in there _are_ getting well, aren't they? STANTON. To all appearances, yes. You don't dare swear to it, though. Sometimes, just when a case looks most favourably, there's a sudden, unforeseen breakdown, and they have to be sent back to bed, or, if it's very serious, back to the Infirmary again. These are the exceptions, however, not the rule. You can bank on most of those eaters being out in the world and usefully employed within six months. SLOAN. You couldn't say more than that (_Abruptly._) But--the unfortunate ones--do you have many deaths? STANTON (_with a frown_). No. We're under a very hard, almost cruel imperative which prevents that. If, at the end of six months, a case shows no response to treatment, continues to go down hill--if, in a word, it seems hopeless--we send them away, to one of the State Farms if they have no private means. (_Apologetically._) You see, this sanatorium is overcrowded and has a long waiting list, most of the time, of others who demand their chance for life. We have to make places for them. We have no time to waste on incurables. There are other places for them--and sometimes, too, a change is beneficial and they pick up in new surroundings. You never can tell. But we're bound by the rule. It may seem cruel--but it's as near justice to all concerned as we can come.