His back was toward the door, but Aunt Jane had no doubt about the shabby, wrinkled coat and the shrugging shoulders.

She waited, holding her breath. She was not quite sure of her cap—she put up her hands to it cautiously, adjusting and smoothing it.... The figure by the table moved across to the bell and rang it sharply.

His face was toward her now. She saw that he was smiling a little.

Aunt Jane nodded shrewdly. Number 16 was better!... From her place in the dark, she watched the man move about the room. He was humming softly—a half-meaningless little tune, with a tumty-tumty refrain, and his face was absent.

A nurse appeared in the door and looked at him inquiringly.

He glanced at her. "I want Mrs. Holbrook—yes."

"Aunt Jane? I don't know where she is. I thought she came into her office."

"Well—she isn't here. You can see she isn't here, can't you? Find her—please."

Aunt Jane behind her crack, shivered a little as the girl turned. But the nurse had eyes and ears only for the surgeon and his impatience. She hurried away.

Aunt Jane drew a free breath.

The surgeon crossed to her desk and halted there. His eye rested absently on the great bunch of roses. Presently his face lighted up; he was seeing the roses! He looked at them with an air of appreciation. The little smile was still on his lips, and the tumty-tumty tune.... Slowly he leaned forward, on tiptoe, and—smelled of them and nodded approval.

Aunt Jane's hands made swift, darting touches at her cap and her apron and her hair and she got up quickly.... Perhaps he would go away! But Dr. Carmon's eye had fallen on the little card under the vase and he took it up—and read the name with near-sighted curious gaze, and turned it over——

Aunt Jane stepped out from her place. "How is Number 16?" she asked placidly.

He wheeled—the card in his hand.

"Oh! You're here! I just sent for you." He waved the card.

"I know. I was busy."

"Funny, I didn't hear you come in!" He looked at her thoughtfully.

"You were thinking of something else, maybe," said Aunt Jane tranquilly. She came up to the desk.

He looked curiously at her face.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing," responded Aunt Jane. "Do I look as if anything was the matter?" The face under its ink stains was serene.

Dr. Carmon regarded it critically. "Soap and water—" he suggested. He pointed a helpful finger at the smudge of ink on her cheek.

She lifted a quick hand.

He nodded grimly. "And there's a little over there by your left ear," he said wickedly.

She rubbed at the place blindly. "I must have got ink on me—when I was making up my book—" Her glance flitted toward it.

Dr. Carmon's eye fell on the open page and on the smudge of Room 36. He bent forward, tapping the place with the card in his hand, and laughed out.

"I never saw your book look like that!" He gazed at it and then at Aunt Jane's face—a little suspiciously.

She leaned forward to inspect it.

"Somebody must have spilled water—or something on it!" she said casually. "Folks are so careless here!" She laid a blotter methodically across the smudge and closed the book and put it away.

Dr. Carmon surveyed the roses. "Handsome bunch of flowers!" he said carelessly. He waved the card at them.

"They look nice," admitted Aunt Jane. "They're some Mr. Medfield sent—they came from his garden." Her tone was quiet and businesslike—there was no nonsense about those roses. She looked at them impersonally.

"I saw it was his card." Dr. Carmon's hand motioned with the card and dropped it to the desk. He might almost have been said to fling it from him—as if it were a challenge.

"Who did he send them to?" he asked.

"Why—to me!" said Aunt Jane.

She tried her best to look commonplace and unconcerned—as if she had been receiving roses all her life—as if she had large bunches of them every day, flaming away there on her desk.

Dr. Carmon's glance twinkled across the roses—to the placid face.

"Humph!" he said.

"How is Number 16?" asked Aunt Jane.

"Fine!" Dr. Carmon's face lighted with it. He forgot roses—"He's going to pull through all right—I think."

"That's good! I kind of reckoned he'd come through." She had turned a leisurely glance to the door.

The nurse stood there.

"I can't—" she began. "Oh—you're here! I looked everywhere for you!"

"Yes, I'm here. I've been here quite a spell," said Aunt Jane.

The nurse withdrew and Dr. Carmon and Aunt Jane and the roses were left alone.

He looked suspiciously and grudgingly at the roses and shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He took his hat. "I want you to look in on Number 16—sometime later."

There was no "please" about the request—or "will you kindly." But Aunt Jane understood.

"I was planning to go in by and by—along about four o'clock," she said kindly. "That's the time he'll need somebody most, I guess!"

Dr. Carmon looked again at the roses. "I shall want Suite A, Friday—for a new patient," he said abruptly.

Aunt Jane's mouth opened—and closed.

"Medfield's well enough to go," said Dr. Carmon. He nodded to the roses—as if they knew of Herman Medfield's health. "He'll be better off at home!" he said shortly—and shot out the door.

Aunt Jane gazed after him, a minute.

She took up the card from the desk and held it off and looked at it severely and shook it a little—as if it might have known better—and dropped it into a small drawer behind the roses and locked the drawer—and put the key in her pocket.

Then she turned off the lights and left the room. And the great bunch of roses that had flamed up so bravely, lost their color in the dark.

Perhaps they went to sleep.

All night the fragrance of the roses stole out into the room and filled it—as if little flitting dreams of roses came and went there in the dark.