"She's in Room 11," said Miss Barton. "They will operate as soon as they can get things ready. Don't alarm her. There is no risk nowadays, nothing to be excited about." "Is she excited?" "I think not." "Of course she isn't." It is hard sometimes to be patient with older people, playing their own rôles so busily they lose all sense of other individualities. Aurelia, Lita imagined, was probably the calmest person in the infirmary. In Room 11 she found her roommate lying on her side, very pale, with her dark hair dragged back and tightly braided. The nurse was moving in and out and the two girls were practically alone, while the following dialogue took place. "Pain?" "Oh, my!" "Poor kid!" "Lita, in my shoe box there are five pictures of Gene Valentine, and a note--" "From him?" "No, dodo, from me--a rough draft. Get them, will you?" "You bet!" "Thanks." Then the nurse came in to say that everything was ready, and Lita was hurried out of the room. She kept telling herself that there was nothing to worry about, but her heart was beating oddly. In the hall a young man was standing; or rather, from Lita's point of view, an older man, for he must have been twenty-eight or nine. He was attired in a long white robe rather like a cook--or an angel. The sight of him dressed thus for his work upset Lita and made her feel like crying; in fact she did cry. "Don't you worry," said the young man in a deep voice--a splendid, rolling, velvet sort of voice. "We've got the best man in the country to operate; there's no danger." "Is that you--the best man in the country?" He laughed. "To be candid, no," he said. "I'm Doctor Burroughs' assistant. He's the best there is. There is nothing to cry about." "If people only cried when there was something to cry about," said Lita; and added in an exclamation of the deepest concern, "Oh, goodness!" Her tone alarmed the young man. "What is it?" "I haven't got a handkerchief." He lifted his apron and from the pocket of his blue serge trousers he produced an unfolded handkerchief, which he gave her. "I have a little sister just about your age," he said. Lita's face was in the handkerchief as she asked. "How old?" "Let me see," said the doctor. "I think she must be twelve." A slight sound that might have been a sob escaped from Lita, and the doctor was so moved with compassion that he patted her on the head. Then the door of Room 11 opened and his professional duties called him away. A moment later he came out, bearing Aurelia away to the operating room, and Lita went into Room 11 to wait. He promised as he passed to come and tell her as soon as it was over. She felt perfectly calm now as she sat grasping his handkerchief in her hand. It was fine and embroidered in two letters--L. D. She ran over the L names and found she liked nearly all of them--Lawrence, Lionel, Leopold--not so good, though Leo was all right--Lewis--oh, of course, it was Lewis! She said the word aloud.