“Here’s Doctor Deacon,” he said.

The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom Philip knew only by sight.  A few questions, a brief examination, and the diagnosis.

“What d’you make it?” he asked Griffiths, smiling.

“Influenza.”

“Quite right.”

Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to the hospital?  They’ll put you in a private ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here.”

“I’d rather stay where I am,” said Philip.

He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new surroundings.  He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary cleanliness of the hospital.

“I can look after him, sir,” said Griffiths at once.

“Oh, very well.”

He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.

“Now you’ve got to do exactly as I tell you,” said Griffiths.  “I’m day-nurse and night-nurse all in one.”

“It’s very kind of you, but I shan’t want anything,” said Philip.

Griffiths put his hand on Philip’s forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and the touch seemed to him good.

“I’m just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up, and then I’ll come back.”

In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose.  Then he went upstairs to fetch his books.

“You won’t mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?” he said, when he came down.  “I’ll leave the door open so that you can give me a shout if you want anything.”

Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his sitting-room.  A friend had come in to see Griffiths.

“I say, you’d better not come in tonight,” he heard Griffiths saying.

And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there.  Philip heard him explain.

“I’m looking after a second year’s man who’s got these rooms.  The wretched blighter’s down with influenza.  No whist tonight, old man.”

Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.

“I say, you’re not putting off a party tonight, are you?” he asked.

“Not on your account.  I must work at my surgery.”

“Don’t put it off.  I shall be all right.  You needn’t bother about me.”

“That’s all right.”

Philip grew worse.  As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep.  He saw Griffiths get out of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the fire.  He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Did I wake you up?  I tried to make up the fire without making a row.”

“Why aren’t you in bed?  What’s the time?”