Aunt Jane was in her office. It was Monday morning and the wheels had gritted getting under way. She had poured a drop of oil here and another drop there, as it seemed needed, and had come back to her office for a general survey before starting again.
It was well known in the House of Mercy that the times when the whole hospital force went scurrying about, under some sudden emergency, were often the times that Aunt Jane chose, for some unknown reason, to sit quietly in her office, doing nothing.
Hurrying by the office door, with tense look and quick-running feet, they would catch a glimpse of Aunt Jane sitting placidly at ease; and they would slow down a little, perhaps, and wonder what she could be thinking of to sit there as if nothing were wrong.... And then, somehow, through the hospital would run a quiet, steadying force that seemed to hold them in place and use them for its ends; and they would be conscious, as they worked, of being bigger than they had guessed.
Aunt Jane was not thinking now of any crisis. The troubles this morning were petty ones—"pin pricks," she called them. She was wondering about the millionaire—and wondering whether she would better go to Suite A.... Miss Canfield had reported a good night and Dr. Carmon would be coming soon.
She looked up. The doctor's figure was in the doorway. He nodded gruffly as he took off his coat. "Everybody all right?"
Aunt Jane's tongue clicked a little. She went to a corner of the room and moved back the screen and turned on the hot water.
"Come here," she said.
The doctor looked at her inquiringly.
"You didn't clean your vest! It's a perfect sight!" She tested the water with her hand and took up the soap.
Dr. Carmon glanced down at the expanse of vest guiltily. He scowled. "I'm too busy—to fuss." He reached for his bag.