The white-capped attendant at the hospital led us up a flight of broad, easy steps, to a large sunny room where convalescents were allowed to try their new strength. Here "our man" was sitting in a large arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket.
"He simply wouldn't stay in bed," the nurse explained in an undertone. "He says he must go home, but he really isn't strong enough to walk across the room without help."
"Is there anything the matter with him? Beyond exhaustion, I mean," I asked. Jean had run across the room and was bending over the old man with a coaxing concern in her face that was charming. She was like an elfin sprite trying to express sympathy for some poor, huddled-up toad.
"That's enough," said the nurse crisply. "No, there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong. But it will take a week at least before he is able to take care of himself. His mind will grow stronger as he does." "Isn't his mind right?"
"You can talk to him," she said, non-committally. "Don't tire him." And with that she left us.
Jean came running back to meet me and put me properly into touch with things.
"He isn't happy," she explained hastily. "You must be cheerful, and not bother him.--Here is Mr. Hilton who has come to see you, Mr. Jordan. Now you can have a nice little talk with him." Her tone indicated that this was indeed a privilege which might make up for many slings from unkind fortune.
Mr. Jordan made an impatient gesture as though he would throw off the blanket which was binding his arms.
"What am I doing here?" he asked querulously. "I want to get away. How did I get here?"
"You fainted away on the street, Mr. Jordan," I answered. "We brought you here to have you taken care of. Of course you may go as soon as you are able to. Do you want to go home? Wouldn't it be best for some member of your family or some friend to come for you?"