"It is a convenient doctrine for them," said John Smith, and buried his head in the bedclothes as if he wanted to hear nothing more.
For Lady Alice's next two visits he would not look up, or respond when she came near him, which she never failed to do; but on the third occasion he lifted his head.
"Well, madam," he said, "you have after all been trying my plan, I hear. Do you find that it works well?"
Lady Alice hesitated. The averted faces and puzzled, downcast—sometimes sullen—looks of the sick men and boys to whom she had of late given nothing but kind words, had grieved her sorely.
"I suppose it proves the truth, in part, of what you say," she answered gently, "but on the other hand I find that my gifts have been judged excessive and unwise. It seems that I have a great deal to learn in the art of giving: it does not come by nature, as some suppose. I have consulted the doctors and nurses—and I have to thank you for giving me a warning."
A look of surprise passed across the man's face.
"You're better than some of them," he said, curtly. "I thought you'd never look at me again. I don't know why I should have interfered. But I did not like to see you cheated and laughed at."
Lady Alice colored, but she felt no resentment against the man, although he had shown her that she had made herself ridiculous when she was bent on playing Lady Bountiful, and posing as an angel of light. She said after a moment's pause—
"I believe you meant kindly. Is there nothing that I can do for you?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so—I can't remember very well. The doctors say I shall remember by and by. Then I shall know."