in suite a, herman medfield had eaten the last of his breakfast. it might almost be said that, sitting in the window with the paper spread before him and the sun shining in, he had enjoyed his breakfast.... it was a long time since herman medfield had eaten a complete breakfast served in the ordinary way. the road to the house of mercy was strewn with a vast wreckage of fads and hopes and breakfast foods. there were long vegetarian streaks that excluded milk and eggs; and gusts of fletcherizing—chewing wind hopefully and patiently; and there were wide negative deserts—forbidden fruits—no starches-and-sweets together, no sweets-and-acids, no potato-and-meat, no proteids-and-carbons. a long, weary, hopeless watching and coaxing of gastric juices, and infinite patience and cunning toward the vagaries of indigestion. he had "rolled the stomach gently," and he had lain with "a[pg 60] pillow under his back and head down." he had become a finical, peripatetic amphitheatre of constant, cautious experiment and investigation. and it had brought him at last to suite a and the sunny window.

and now in a breath, it seemed, in the berkeley house of mercy aunt jane's touch had broken the habit of years. he felt like a very small boy, who has been taken up and set down gently in his chair—and told to eat his breakfast and keep still.

he had thrown caution to the winds and had eaten like a hungry human being. he had drunk great swallows of the delicious brown coffee—with cream and sugar in it—without a thought of diluted gastric juice, or secretions, or fads, or fermentations.... he felt almost well as he ate the last of his toast and read his paper and basked in the sunny quiet. and behind it all was a sense of security and protection; no telephone could get at him, no clicking of the tape could reach his ear and set his tired brain to work.

so he had finished his breakfast and read his paper and had been almost happy.

but now he had read the paper through[pg 61] three times, gleaning last scanty bits of news; he had opened the elaborate writing-desk across the room and investigated the neat assortment of pens and blotters and paper and ink—each sheet with its neatly stamped heading of the house of mercy; and he was feeling a little bored.

he stood looking down at the desk and fingering the keys in his pocket. then he went over and stood by the window and looked out, and turned away and paced the room once or twice, fingering absently at the keys in his pocket. he wondered whether perhaps his breakfast had not been a little heavy, after all—two eggs for a man who had been dieting!

and all the time his restless fingers—whether thrust deep in the pockets of his black velvet coat, or twisting a little as he walked, or jingling the keys—were rolling imaginary cigarettes and reaching toward a swiftly struck match—and the fragrant in-drawn breath of smoke.

it had not occurred to him when dr. carmon had told him that he would probably have to undergo an operation and that he[pg 62] must have him at the house of mercy for a few days to watch the case—it had not occurred to herman medfield that he would be a prisoner in the house of mercy.

he stepped impatiently to the window and looked out again and shrugged his shoulders.... it was all very well to have an operation—very likely he did need something of the sort.... but this coming beforehand and being shut up by himself—while his machinery was going, full tilt—all this fuss was ridiculous!... down in the yard a maid was hanging out clothes; he watched her strong arms lift the wet sheets and swing them to the line; the wind blew her hair a little.... it was more than likely it was largely for effect—this having him come beforehand and shutting him up like a prisoner in a cell, and taking away his tobacco—it was more than likely that it was all for effect. herman medfield knew most things that could be known about advertising and about the value of advertising methods.... it might very well be a good card for the hospital and for dr. carmon to have him there, and to get the advertising that would come from having[pg 63] it known. the reporters were sure to get hold of it.... it flitted across his mind that there might be an interview.... it was years since herman medfield had granted an interview. but even a reporter would relieve the monotony a little. he glanced at his watch and felt a little cheered at the thought of the reporter.

then something occurred to him. he wondered whether the efficient person, who seemed to have charge of the berkeley house of mercy, would allow him to see a reporter!... he had eaten his breakfast—and, on the whole, he felt better for it—the eggs seemed to be taking care of themselves after all.... he foresaw that for the next three or four weeks he was not going to do what he chose, but what the person thought best for him. then his sense of humor came to the rescue. he recalled the cap strings—and smiled.

it would not be such bad sport, matching one's wits against the cap strings.... but there was still the morning to get through!

he wandered across and stopped again by the elaborate writing-desk and looked at it. he might write to some one. he sat down[pg 64] and drew a sheet of paper toward him and looked at the neatly cut inscription across the top—"the berkeley house of mercy"—his prison cell, he thought grimly. his fingers reached out for a half-smoked cigar—and drew back and smoothed the paper thoughtfully and took up the pen and dipped it in the ink and waited.

he would write to julian. he had not written to julian in his own handwriting—not since the boy was a pupil at exeter—that was ten years ago.... he was his own secretary those days.

he wrote: "my dear julian." then he waited. he was seeing julian as he used to look when he was at exeter; he had been such a fresh, clear-faced boy; he had been proud of him—and julian's mother.... the millionaire was living over those first days of life together—the time when julian was born—he had not thought of it for years—all her pretty ways in the house—and the garden he had made for her, and her coming to meet him when he came from the office at night.... and then the days when she had seemed to fade like a flower and they[pg 65] had carried her out of the house—and there had been no one but the boy to come running to meet him when he came home— but the boy had hurt him and he had sent him away ... and the loneliness since.... the empty house at night, and the great void spaces of life that opened on every side. he had thrown gold into them—and he had reached out for more gold—great heaped-up masses of gold and bonds and thrifty investments; and the gold had mounted higher every year—till it seemed to shut him off from every one.... no one came to him now except for money—or about money. even julian hardly wrote except to ask for a check or to acknowledge one. and he only knew the boy's address through his bankers.... it was somewhere on the riviera, the last time. he dipped the pen again in the ink.

there was a knock at the door and he turned. it was miss canfield, the nurse who had been assigned him. she carried a long, light box. she held it out.

"some flowers for you."

he reached up his hand, half pleased. he[pg 66] had not expected any one would send flowers to him.

she undid the wrapper and handed him the box.... on the top lay a card edged in black. he put on his eye-glasses and took it up.

"mrs. cawein——"

his face fell a little. she was his partner's wife—his late partner's widow, that is—she had a right to send flowers to him, of course—if she chose.

he set the box down on the desk and took up his pen. the nurse brought a large vase and placed it beside him and arranged the flowers. they were huge yellow roses, with long stems and crisp leaves—a kind of salmon-pink yellow. herman medfield glanced at them grudgingly. it seemed to him they were a singularly displeasing color. he had not supposed there were any roses of that shade of yellow! he grew roses himself, and he knew something about them. he shrugged his shoulder a little toward them and took up the pen.

"put them somewhere else," he said irritably.

[pg 67]

a little clear color flushed up in her face. "would you like them on the table?" she asked.

"yes—please."

she removed the vase and placed it on the table across the room and went out.

he stared at the heading on the paper: "my dear julian." after all, what was there he could say to the boy? he could tell him he was in a hospital. but that might seem weak—as if he wanted sympathy—because he was down.... herman medfield never asked for sympathy; his heart was especially hard toward men who did. they were always the devils who were down and out—that asked for sympathy—and hoped to get some of his money to waste—as they had wasted their own. he would give hundreds to a man who stood up to him—when he would not give a dollar to the one that whined.

he dipped the pen again and wrote rapidly—a mere note, telling the boy that he was away from home for a while—under the doctor's orders, nothing serious, nothing to worry any one; he should be around again in a few[pg 68] days. he signed it grimly and hunted up the banker's address and directed and sealed it.... that was done! he pushed the letter from him. he was tired. he wanted a cigar.

there was a quick knock at the door. dr. carmon had finished his operation and made his round of visits in the hospital and he was doing suite a.

herman medfield greeted him with relief. "come in," he said. "come in and sit down.... i am sorry i cannot offer you a cigar," he added with a little humorous sigh.

the doctor sat down. "hard work, is it?"