“Then why didn’t you leave it on?”

“And let you freeze?”

“I was quite warm.  As it was, it lay in the hallway all night and did no one any good.”

Having got thus far from wedding rings, he did not try to get back.  He ate alone, and after breakfast, while she took her half-hour of exercise outside the window, he sat inside reading—­only apparently reading, however.

Once she went quite as far as the gate and stood looking out.

“Jenks!” called Billy Grant.

Jenks has not entered into the story much.  He was a little man, rather fat, who occupied a tiny room in the pavilion, carried meals and soiled clothes, had sat on Billy Grant’s chest once or twice during a delirium, and kept a bottle locked in the dish closet.

“Yes, sir,” said Jenks, coming behind a strong odour of spiritus frumenti.

“Jenks,” said Billy Grant with an eye on the figure at the gate, “is that bottle of yours empty?”

“What bottle?”

“The one in the closet.”

Jenks eyed Billy Grant, and Billy eyed Jenks—­a look of man to man, brother to brother.

“Not quite, sir—­a nip or two.”

“At,” suggested Billy Grant, “say—­five dollars a nip?”

Jenks smiled.

“About that,” he said.  “Filled?”

Billy Grant debated.  The Nurse was turning at the gate.

“No,” he said.  “As it is, Jenks.  Bring it here.”

Jenks brought the bottle and a glass, but the glass was motioned away.  Billy Grant took the bottle in his hand and looked at it with a curious expression.  Then he went over and put it in the upper bureau drawer, under a pile of handkerchiefs.  Jenks watched him, bewildered.

“Just a little experiment, Jenks,” said Billy Grant.

Jenks understood then and stopped smiling.

“I wouldn’t, Mr. Grant,” he said; “it will only make you lose confidence in yourself when it doesn’t work out.”

“But it’s going to work out,” said Billy Grant.  “Would you mind turning on the cold water?”

Now the next twenty-four hours puzzled the Nurse.  When Billy Grant’s eyes were not on her with an unfathomable expression in them, they were fixed on something in the neighbourhood of the dresser, and at these times they had a curious, fixed look not unmixed with triumph.  She tried a new arrangement of combs and brushes and tilted the mirror at a different angle, without effect.

That day Billy Grant took only one cold plunge.  As the hours wore on he grew more cheerful; the look of triumph was unmistakable.  He stared less at the dresser and more at the Nurse.  At last it grew unendurable.  She stopped in front of him and looked down at him severely.  She could only be severe when he was sitting—­when he was standing she had to look so far up at him, even when she stood on her tiptoes.

“What is wrong with me?” she demanded.  “You look so queer!  Is my cap crooked?”