At three Jane got up and bathed her eyes.  She also did her hair, and thus fortified she started out to find the red-haired person.  She intended to say that she was paying sixty-five dollars a week and belonged to a leading family, and that she didn’t mean to endure for a moment the treatment she was getting, and being called a neurasthenic and made to cook for the other patients.

She went slowly along the hall.  The convalescent typhoid heard her and called.

“Hey, doc!” he cried.  “Hey, doc!  Great Scott, man, when do I get some dinner?”

Jane quickened her steps and made for the pantry.  From somewhere beyond, the delirium-tremens case was singing happily: 

I—­love you o—­own—­ly,
I love—­but—­you.

Jane shivered a little.  The person in whom she had been interested and who had caused her precipitate retirement, if not to a nunnery, to what answered the same purpose, had been very fond of that song.  He used to sing it, leaning over the piano and looking into her eyes.

Jane’s nose led her again to the pantry.  There was a sort of soupy odour in the air, and sure enough the red-haired person was there, very immaculate in fresh ducks, pouring boiling water into three tea-cups out of a kettle and then dropping a beef capsule into each cup.

Now Jane had intended, as I have said, to say that she was being outrageously treated, and belonged to one of the best families, and so on.  What she really said was piteously: 

“How good it smells!”

“Doesn’t it!” said the red-haired person, sniffing.  “Beef capsules.  I’ve made thirty cups of it so far since one o’clock—­the more they have the more they want.  I say, be a good girl and run up to the kitchen for some more crackers while I carry food to the convalescent typhoid.  He’s murderous!”

“Where are the crackers?” asked Jane stiffly, but not exactly caring to raise an issue until she was sure of getting something to eat.

“Store closet in the kitchen, third drawer on the left,” said the red-haired man, shaking some cayenne pepper into one of the cups.  “You might stop that howling lunatic on your way if you will.”

“How?” asked Jane, pausing.

“Ram a towel down his throat, or—­but don’t bother.  I’ll dose him with this beef tea and red pepper, and he’ll be too busy putting out the fire to want to sing.”

“You wouldn’t be so cruel!” said Jane, rather drawing back.  The red-haired person smiled and to Jane it showed that he was actually ferocious.  She ran all the way up for the crackers and down again, carrying the tin box.  There is no doubt that Jane’s family would have promptly swooned had it seen her.

When she came down there was a sort of after-dinner peace reigning.  The convalescent typhoid, having filled up on milk and beef soup, had floated off to sleep.  “The Chocolate Soldier” had given way to deep-muttered imprecations from the singer’s room.  Jane made herself a cup of bouillon and drank it scalding.  She was making the second when the red-haired person came back with an empty cup.