Arriving at Hawksley's door he was confronted by a spectacle not without
its humorous touch: The nurse extending a bowl and Hawksley staring at
the sky beyond the window, stonily.

"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.

"Very well. Only, I've warned him." Miss Frances left, somewhat miffed.

"Thanks," said Hawksley, smiling. "She thinks I'm a canary."