first order, she gave a five dollar tip and a command that he ignore further appeals. Instead of gin, light, nutritious custard, a cup of healing chocolate, cinnamon toast and orange marmalade broke Ken's fast.
"Just like home," she said cheerily. Then to Ken; "Now Fm going to order some brandy for you." She telephoned to a downtown pharmacist and soon she was feeding Ken a teaspoonful of smooth, stimulating liqueur. Following his first meal, Ken was ill. He felt feverish, his pulse pattered and skipped. She sat in the chair reading. He shook with a nervous chill. She refused to call a doctor. He begged for a bromide. She prepared a glassful of effervescent salts. He drank and somehow fell asleep.
He dreamed. He was lying on a field of phalli, rigid, red. A hot wind tossed him to and fro. He was nauseated. He awoke. She held a bowl of grapes before him.
"You need alcohol. Eat these and you'll feel better."
"Where did you learn all that?" he asked.
"I studied medicine," she shrugged her shoulders and laughed a little. "Go sleepy-bye," she said softly. And he slumped into deep unconsciousness.
When he opened his eyes again, she was still in the room. She sat there, watching him, a familiar face, a reassuring smile on her full, friendly lips.
Toward dawn, she was talking about herself. She was, she said, an independent woman. She tried to live her own life earnestly. She had never practised medicine because she preferred to be free. Never had she been in love. Occasionally she had experienced a sharp astonishing emotion, a danger signal. At such times, a man would conquer her.
