Phillips strode across the theatre and stood staring down at her.

“Fainted,” he said behind his mask. He looked at his blood-stained gloves, pulled them off and knelt beside her. Sister Marigold “Tut-tut-tutted” like a scandalised hen and rang a bell. Nurse Banks glanced across and then stolidly helped Thoms to cover the patient and lift him back on the trolley. Dr. Roberts did not even look up. He had bent over the patient in an attitude of the most intense concentration. Two nurses came in.

“Nurse Harden’s fainted,” said the matron briefly.

They managed to get Jane to her feet. She opened her eyes and looked vaguely at them. Between them they half carried her out of the theatre.

The patient was wheeled away.

Phillips walked off into the anteroom followed by Thoms.

“Well, sir,” remarked Thoms cheerfully, “I think the usual state of things has been reversed. You are the fierce member of the party as a rule, but to-day you’re a perfect sucking-dove and I damned that poor girl to heaps. I’m sorry about it. Suppose she was feeling groggy all through the op.”

“I suppose so,” said Phillips, turning on a tap.

“I’m sorry about it. She’s a nice girl and a good nurse. Attractive. Wonder if she’s engaged.”

“No.”

“Not?”

“No.”

Thoms paused, towel in hand, and stared curiously at his senior. Sir John washed up sedately and methodically.

“Unpleasant game, operating on your friends, isn’t it?” ventured Thoms, after a pause. “And such a distinguished friend, too. Jove, there are lots of Bolshie-minded gentlemen that wouldn’t be overwhelmed with grief if O’Callaghan faded out! I can see it’s hit you up a bit, sir. I’ve never before seen the faintest tremor in your hands.”

“Oh — I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” He took off his gown and cap and brushed his hair. “You’re quite right,” he said suddenly, “I didn’t enjoy the operation.”

Thoms grinned goodnaturedly and then looked sympathetic.

The door opened and Dr. Roberts came in.

“I just looked in to report, Sir John,” he began. “The patient’s condition is rather disquieting. The camphor injection helped matters at the time but the pulse is still unsatisfactory.” He glanced nervously from one surgeon to the other and polished his glasses. “I must confess I feel rather anxious,” he said. “It’s — it’s such an important case.”

“All cases are important,” said Phillips.

“Of course, Sir John. What I meant to convey was my possible over-anxiety, occasioned by the illustriousness of the patient.”

“You speak like your book, Roberts,” said Thomas facetiously.

“However,” continued Roberts with a doubtful glance at the fat little man. “However, I am anxious.”

“I’ll come and look at him,” answered Philips. “I can understand your concern. Thoms, you’d better come along with us.”

“I won’t be a minute, sir.”

“There’s something about his condition that one doesn’t quite expect,” Roberts said. He went into details. Phillips listened attentively. Thoms darted a complacent glance at the mirror.

“I’m ready,” he told them.

He turned to Roberts.

“That’s a rum-looking old stethoscope you sport, Roberts,” he said jovially.

Roberts looked at it rather proudly. It was an old-fashioned straight instrument of wood with a thick stem, decorated by a row of notches cut down each quadrant.

“I wouldn’t part with that for the latest and best thing on the market, Mr. Thoms,” said Roberts.

“It looks like a tally-stick. What are the notches in aid of?”

Roberts looked self-conscious. He glanced deprecat-ingly at Phillips.

“I’m afraid you’ll set me down as a very vain individual,” he said shyly.

“Come on,” said Thoms. “Spill the beans! Are they all the people you’ve killed or are they your millionaire patients?”

“Not that — no. As a matter of fact, it is a sort of tally. They represent cases of severe heart disease to whom I have given anæsthetic successfully.”

Thoms roared with laughter and Roberts blushed like a schoolboy.

“Are you ready?” asked Phillips coldly.

They all went out together.

In the theatre Sister Marigold, Nurse Banks, and a nurse who had appeared to “scally,” cleaned up and prepared for another operation, an urgent broncho-scopy, to be performed by a throat specialist. Jane had been taken off to the nurses’ quarters.

“Two urgent ops. in one evening!” exclaimed the matron importantly; “we are busy. What’s the time, nurse?”

“Six thirty-five,” said Banks.

“Whatever was the matter with Harden, matron?” asked the scally.

“I’m sure I don’t know, nurse,” rejoined Sister-Marigold.

“I do,” said Nurse Banks grimly.

Sister Marigold cast upon her a glance in which curiosity struggled with dignity. Dignity triumphed. Fortunately the scally was not so handicapped.

“Well, Banks,” she said, “come clean. Why did she faint?”

“She knew the patient.”

“What! Knew Sir Derek O’Callaghan? Harden?”

“Oh, yes! Their people were neighbours down in Dorset, don’t you know,” aped Banks with what she imagined to be the accent of landed proprietorship.

Sister Marigold’s starch seemed to crackle disapproval.

“Nurse Harden comes of a very nice family,” she said pointedly to the scally.

“Oh, most fraytefully nayce,” jeered Banks. “Yes, she knew O’Callaghan all right. I happened to say, about a month ago it was, that he was probably the most completely unscrupulous of the Tories and she didn’t half flare up. Then she told me.”

“Thank you, Nurse Banks, that will do,” said matron icily. “The theatre is not the place for politics. I think we are ready now. I want a word with the doctor about this case.”

She rustled out of the theatre.

“You’ve got a nerve, Banks,” said the scally. “Fancy talking like that about Sir Derek. I think he looks lovely in his photos.”

“You think because he’s got a face like Conrad Veidt he’s a suitable leader of the people — a man to make laws. Typical bourgeois ignorance and stupidity! However, he’s probably the last of his species and he’ll be the first to go when the Dawn breaks.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“I know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t. What Dawn?”

“The Dawn of the Proletariat Day.”

“What’s that? No, don’t lose your hair, Banks. I’d like to know.”

“You will know,” said Banks. “Very shortly.”

Upon which the throat specialist appeared and inquired if they were all ready for him. In ten minutes’ time the figure of a child was wheeled into the theatre and once again the fumes of anæsthetic rose like incense about the table. In another ten minutes the child was taken away. Nurse Banks and the scally began to clear up again. The throat specialist whistled as he washed up in the anteroom. He thrust his head in at the door, remarked: “No rest for the wicked, nurse,” and took himself off.

The two women worked in silence for a little while. Nurse Banks seemed preoccupied and rather morose.

“Hullo,” said the scally, “there’s Pips growling on the stairs.” (“Pips” was hospital slang for Sir John Phillips.) “And Thomcat. Wonder how he is now. Sir Derek, I mean.”

Nurse Banks did not answer.

“I don’t believe you care.”

“Oh, I’m quite interested.”

The voices grew louder but neither of the two nurses could hear what was said. They stood very still, listening intently.

Presently there seemed to be some kind of movement. A woman’s voice joined in the conversation.

“Who’s that?” asked the scally.

“Sounds like Marigold,” said Banks. “God, that woman infuriates me!”

“Ssh! What’s it all about, I wonder?”

Sir John Phillips’s voice sounded clearly above the others.

“I’d better attend to that,” it said.

“Pips sounds absolutely rampant,” breathed the scally.