Lloyd went directly to her room, tossed her books aside without removing the wrappers, and set about packing her satchel.  When this was done she changed her tailor-made street dress and crisp skirt for clothes that would not rustle when she moved, and put herself neatly to rights, stripping off her rings and removing the dog-violets from her waist.  Then she went to the round, old-fashioned mirror that hung between the windows of her room, and combed back her hair in a great roll from her forehead and temples, and stood there a moment or so when she had done, looking at her reflection.

She was tall and of a very vigorous build, full-throated, deep-chested, with large, strong hands and solid, round wrists.  Her face was rather serious; one did not expect her to smile easily; the eyes dull blue, with no trace of sparkle and set deep under heavy, level eyebrows.  Her mouth was the mouth of the obstinate, of the strong-willed, and her chin was not small.  But her hair was a veritable glory, a dull-red flame, that bore back from her face in one great solid roll, dull red, like copper or old bronze, thick, heavy, almost gorgeous in its sombre radiance.  Dull-red hair, dull-blue eyes, and a faint, dull glow forever on her cheeks, Lloyd was a beautiful woman; much about her that was regal, for she was very straight as well as very tall, and could look down upon most women and upon not a few men.

Lloyd turned from the mirror, laying down the comb.  She had yet to pack her nurse’s bag, or, since this was always ready, to make sure that none of its equipment was lacking.  She was very proud of this bag, as she had caused it to be made after her own ideas and design.  It was of black russia leather and in the form of an ordinary valise, but set off with a fine silver clasp bearing her name and the agency’s address.  She brought it from the closet and ran over its contents, murmuring the while to herself: 

“Clinical thermometer—­brandy—­hypodermic syringe—­vial of oxalic-acid crystals—­minim-glass—­temperature charts; yes, yes, everything right.”

While she was still speaking Miss Douglass, the fever nurse, knocked at her door, and, finding it ajar, entered without further ceremony.

“Are you in, Miss Searight?” called Miss Douglass, looking about the room, for Lloyd had returned to the closet and was busy washing the minim-glass.

“Yes, yes,” cried Lloyd, “I am.  Sit down.”

“Rownie told me you are next on call,” said the other, dropping on Lloyd’s couch.

“So I am; I was very nearly caught, too.  I ran over across the square for five minutes, and while I was gone Miss Wakeley and Esther Thielman were called.  My name is at the top now.”

“Esther got a typhoid case from Dr. Pitts.  Do you know, Lloyd, that’s—­let me see, that’s four—­seven—­nine—­that’s ten typhoid cases in the City that I can think of right now.”

“It’s everywhere; yes, I know,” answered Lloyd, coming out of the room, carefully drying the minim-glass.