“But you must!” insisted Miss Frances.
“Chops or beefsteak!”
“It will give you nausea.”
“Permit me to find out. Dash it, I'm hungry!” Hawksley declared. “I'm no fever patient. A smart rap on the head; nothing more than that. Healthy food will draw the blood down from there. Haven't lost anything but a few hours of consciousness, and you treat me as though I'd been jolly well peppered with shrapnel and gassed. Touch that stuff? Rather not! Chops or beefsteak!”
“Let him have it, Miss Frances,” advised Cutty from the doorway.
“But it's unusual,” replied the nurse as a final protest.
“Give it a try. Is he strong enough to sit up through breakfast?”
“He's really not fit. But if he insists on doing the one he might as well do the other.”
“Righto!”—from the patient.
“Will you tell Kuroki to make it a beefsteak breakfast for four? I know how Mr. Hawksley feels. Been through the same bout.” Cutty wanted Miss Frances out of the room.