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said, “Of course, Matron, I know. You mustn’t mind me; head cases are rather a bee in my bonnet. Night Sister’s so considerate, I know she hates to give one an unnecessary call. But this case happens to be rather interesting, so she needn’t mind.”
    The Matron acknowledged this tacit apology with a gracious inclination; and they moved toward the front door. But it had already been opened. The maid stood beside it, hesitating. The visitor came past her toward them.
    Hilary knew at once who she was. The correct tweeds, halfway between sporting and urban; the discreetly toning cashmere jumper with the permissible small pearls; powder, but no lipstick; fading fair hair becomingly, but not fashionably dressed, under the inevitable Henry Heath; the tense concealment of emotion before the maid. Hilary recognized the breeding, but not the resemblance she had half expected to see; and received also a general impression of graciousness, a little conscious perhaps but real. A deeper level of her mind was aware also of that natural self-repression which manifests itself, through sorrow or trouble, in a faint defensive hostility.
    “How do you do? You are the Matron, I think. I am Mrs. Fleming. May I see my son?”
    The Matron embarked on the routine of reassurance, sympathy, and exposition. She received few private patients, and her lowered self-confidence made her a little pompous and genteel. Hilary stood ready for her turn; and was aware that her presence was being felt as an unexplained intrusion. If she had been a man, her function would have been instantly apparent; she had ceased to think about such things, but, under the skin, continued to feel them.
    The Matron was saying, “But I’m sure you’d like to talk to Dr. Mansell, who’s in charge of the case.”
    “Yes, indeed. Is he with my son now?”
    “This is Dr. Mansell.”
    “Oh. I’m afraid I didn’t—How do you do?”
    Her dismay was baldly evident. To Hilary it seemed that she had barely attempted its concealment. She fought her own resentment, as she always did; finding it, in this stale situation, strangely fresh and strong. Ashamed of herself, she took particular pains; was simple and clear without the air of talking down, hopeful and confident without dishonesty about risks.
    Mrs. Fleming relaxed neither her strain nor her reserve. “I see. Thank you. May I go to him now?”
    “I think it wouldn’t be very wise today. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, for a few minutes, would be a safe promise, I think. It’s just in these early stages that absolute quiet is so essential. It does seem unkind, I know; but we’ve proved over and over again that it’s much the best.”
    Mrs. Fleming’s face altered. It took on the look which every doctor and nurse knows well; the look of someone confronted with a soulless and impersonal organization, whose members have lost touch with the humanities and require to have them explained in words of one syllable.
    “Dr. Mansell, please let me see my son. I can assure you I shan’t fuss or excite him. I know how one should behave in a sickroom; and besides, I understand him far too well.”
    Hilary had, when she knew it to be essential, a long reserve of patience, which at other times she did not always trouble to employ. She employed it now. She explained, gently and with detail. At the end, she saw that she had made no headway at all.
    “Yes, I quite understand that of course he must be kept quiet, since you say he has concussion. Even we lay people realize that, you know. But you see, that’s the very reason why I must be there. My son and I have been a great deal together; we’re accustomed to one another’s companionship. When he was ill at school I put up at a hotel close by and spent every day with him. The first thing he’ll look for, when he recovers consciousness, will be to see me in the room. Unfortunately, he’s rather highly strung. If he misses me he’ll be terribly worried. You don’t want