Miss Erith stepped into the room. Perhaps the patient had heard the
low murmur of voices in the corridor, for he lay on his side in bed
gazing attentively toward the door. Miss Erith walked straight to
the bedside; he looked up at her in silence.

"I am so glad that you are better," she said with an effort made
doubly difficult in the consciousness of the bright blush on her
cheeks. Without moving he replied in what must have once been an
agreeable voice: "Thank you. I suppose you are Miss Erith."

"Yes."

"Then--I am very grateful for what you have done."

"It was so fortunate--"

"Would you be seated if you please?"

She took the chair beside his bed.

"It was nice of you," he said, almost sullenly. "Few women of your
sort would bother with a drunken man."

They both flushed. She said calmly: "It is women of my sort who DO
exactly that kind of thing."

He gave her a dark and sulky look: "Not often," he retorted: "there
are few of your sort from Samaria."