"That was a mistake," he said. "They got it wrong when I came—on the books—And it was in the papers, I suppose.... It's quite a joke that I should have had all Herman Medfield's flowers." He chuckled a little. "He's a distant relative of mine—Herman Medfield— But quite a different sort of man," he added quietly. "I don't see any salt here——"
She glanced quickly at the tray and went out to bring the salt.
He smiled at his dinner blandly and began to eat. He would get rid of the incubus of Herman Medfield's money for a while—and see how it felt.
His whole body relaxed as the weight of Herman Medfield went sliding from his shoulders.... No more suspicions, no more watching while people talked to him, for the inevitable money to crop up, or for some philanthropic scheme to put its hand in his pocket, on the sly.... They seemed to think, if a man had money, that he doted on orphan asylums and libraries and dormitories! He wished, fervently, that he might never hear of another college or foundation, or any sort of institution for doing good. He longed to be rid of it all. He wanted to be like other men—a human being—for a month, for six weeks.... He began to wonder how long a patient could stay in the Berkeley House of Mercy—how sick he had to be?... They shouldn't turn him out too soon. He could invent an ache or two. He would take a long vacation from his money.
Miss Canfield brought the salt. She looked at his face as she put it down. "You're feeling better, aren't you?" she said.
He relaxed the cheerful look. "A little better," he admitted. "Some pain still."
She smiled. It was only in the Children's Ward that they were glad to let the pains go—that they ignored them or forgot them as quickly as they could.... Men were all alike—men and women were the same in cherishing their pains and the memory of their pains—women a little more reluctant than men, perhaps, to see them go. Men were more like children.
This gray-haired man, eating his dinner happily, was a little like a child, she thought as she watched him. He seemed to have grown younger—even in a day.... It was curious they should have got his name wrong on the books.... It was probably because of the aristocratic look. He was a very stately figure, leaning back there against the pillows, in his embroidered Chinese coat, with his gray hair and little pointed beard.... She turned to go.
"Won't you sit down? Can't you stay?" said Medfield politely.