She was alone, and looking very professional. There is nothing quite
so professional as a new nurse. She had, indeed, reached a point
where, if she took a pulse three times, she got somewhat similar
results. There had been a time when they had run something like
this: 56--80--120----

Jane Brown was taking pulses. It was a visiting day, and all the
beds had fresh white spreads, tucked in neatly at the foot. In the
exact middle of the centre table with its red cloth, was a vase of
yellow tulips. The sun came in and turned them to golden flame.

Jane Brown was on duty alone and taking pulses with one eye while
she watched the visitors with the other. She did the watching better
than she did the pulses. For instance, she was distinctly aware that
Stanislas Krzykolski's wife, in the bed next the end, had just slid
a half-dozen greasy cakes, sprinkled with sugar, under his pillow.
She knew, however, that not only grease but love was in those cakes,
and she did not intend to confiscate them until after Mrs.
Krzykolski had gone.

More visitors came. Shuffling and self-conscious mill-workers,
walking on their toes; draggled women; a Chinese boy; a girl with a
rouged face and a too confident manner. A hum of conversation hung
over the long room. The sunlight came in and turned to glory, not
only the tulips and the red tablecloth, but also the brass basins,
the fireplace fender, and the Probationer's hair.

Twenty-two sat unnoticed in the doorway. A young girl, very lame,
with a mandolin, had just entered the ward. In the little stir of