Only one thing seemed to really trouble him now.  At the top of the stairs he stopped for an instant and cocked his head a bit worriedly towards the drawing-room where from some slow-brightening alcove bird-carol after bird-carol went fluting shrilly up into the morning.

“Is that—­those blasted canaries?” he asked briefly.

Very companionably the White Linen Nurse cocked her own towsled head on one side and listened with him for half a moment.

“Only four of them are blasted canaries,” she corrected very gently.  “The fifth one is a paroquet that I got at a mark-down because it was a widowed bird and wouldn’t mate again.”

“Eh?” jerked the Senior Surgeon.

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse and started for the kitchen.

No one but the Senior Surgeon himself breakfasted in state at five o’clock that morning.  Snug and safe in her crib upstairs the Little Crippled Girl slumbered peacefully on through the general disturbance.  And as for the White Linen Nurse herself,—­what with chilling and rechilling melons,—­and broiling and unbroiling steaks,—­and making and remaking coffee,—­and hunting frantically for a different-sized water glass,—­or a prettier colored plate, there was no time for anything except an occasional hurried surreptitious nibble half way between the stove and the table.

Yet in all that raucous early morning hour together neither man nor girl suffered towards the other the slightest personal sense of contrition or resentment, for each mind was trained equally fairly,—­whether reacting on its own case or another’s—­to differentiate pretty readily between mean nerves and a—­mean spirit.

Only once in fact across the intervening chasm of crankiness did the Senior Surgeon hurl a smile that was even remotely self-conscious or conciliatory.  Glancing up suddenly from a particularly sharp and disagreeable speech, he noted the White Linen Nurse’s red lips mumbling softly one to the other.

“Are you specially—­religious,—­Miss Malgregor?” he grinned quite abruptly.

“No, not specially, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.  “Why, sir?”

“Oh, it ’s only—­” grinned the Senior Surgeon dourly, “it’s only that every time I’m especially ugly to you, I see your lips moving as though in ‘silent prayer’ as they call it—­and I was just wondering—­if there was any special formula you used with me—­that kept you so—­everlastingly—­damned serene.  Is there?”

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

“What is it?” demanded the Senior Surgeon quite bluntly.

“Do I have to tell?” gasped the White Linen Nurse.  A little tremulously in her hand the empty cup she was carrying rattled against its saucer.  “Do I have to tell?” she repeated pleadingly.

A delirious little thrill of power went fluttering through the Senior Surgeon’s heart.

“Yes, you have to tell me!” he announced quite seriously.