It was astonishing how little time it took for Miss Felicia's personality to have its effect.
Up the uncarpeted stairs marched the great lady, down an equally bare hall lined on either side by bedroom doors, some marked by unblacked shoes others by tin trays holding fragments of late or early breakfasts, the flaring cap obsequiously pointing the way until the two had reached a door at the end of the corridor.
"Now I won't bother you any more," said Miss Felicia.

"Thank you very much.

Are you in here Mr.Breen ?" she called in a cheery voice as she pushed open the door, and advanced to his bedside:--"Oh, you poor fellow! Oh, I AM so sorry!" The boy lay on a cot-bed pushed close to the wall.

His face was like chalk; his eyes deep set in his head; his scalp one criss-cross of bandages, and his right hand and wrist a misshapen lump of cotton wadding and splints.
"No, don't move.

Why, you did not look as bad as this yesterday," she added in sympathetic tones, patting his free hand with her own, her glance wandering over the cramped little room with its meagre appointments.
Jack smiled faintly and a light gleamed in his eyes.