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Though the interne had said there was no way back, the first step had really been taken; and he was greatly pleased with himself and with everybody because it had been his idea. The Probationer tried to find a chance to thank him; and, failing that, she sent a grateful little note to his room:

Is Mimi the Austrian to have a baked apple?
[Signed] WARD A.

P.S.–It went through wonderfully! She is so cheerful
since it is over. How can I ever thank you?

The reply came back very quickly:

Baked apple, without milk, for Mimi. WARD A.
[Signed] D.L.S.

P.S.–Can you come up on the roof for a little air?

She hesitated over that for some time. A really honest-to-goodness nurse may break a rule now and then and nothing happen; but a probationer is only on trial and has to be exceedingly careful–though any one might go to the roof and watch the sunset. She decided not to go. Then she pulled her soft hair down over her forehead, where it was most becoming, and fastened it with tiny hairpins, and went up after all–not because she intended to, but because as she came out of her room the elevator was going up–not down. She was on the roof almost before she knew it.

The interne was there in fresh white ducks, smoking. At first they talked of skin grafting and the powder that had not done what was expected of it. After a time, when the autumn twilight had fallen on them like a benediction, she took her courage in her hands and told of her visit to the house on the Avenue, and about the parrot and the plot.

The interne stood very still. He was young and intolerant. Some day he would mellow and accept life as it is–not as he would have it. When she had finished he seemed to have drawn himself into a shell, turtle fashion, and huddled himself together. The shell was pride and old prejudice and the intolerance of youth. “She had to have an alibi!” said the Probationer.

“Oh, of course,” very stiffly.

“I cannot see why you disapprove. Something had to be done.”

“I cannot see that you had to do it; but it’s your own affair, of course. Only—-“

“Please go on.”

“Well, one cannot touch dirt without being soiled.”

“I think you will be sorry you said that,” said the Probationer stiffly. And she went down the staircase, leaving him alone. He was sorry, of course; but he would not say so even to himself. He thought of the Probationer, with her eager eyes and shining hair and her warm little heart, ringing the bell of the Avenue house and making her plea–and his blood ran hot in him. It was just then that the parrot spoke on the other side of the chimney.

“Gimme a bottle of beer!” it said. “Nice cold beer! Cold beer!”

The interne walked furiously toward the sound. Must this girl of the streets and her wretched associates follow him everywhere? She had ruined his life already. He felt that it was ruined. Probably the Probationer would never speak to him again.

The Dummy was sitting on a bench, with the parrot on his knee looking rather queer from being smuggled about under a coat and fed the curious things that the Dummy thought a bird should eat. It had a piece of apple pie in its claw now.

“Cold beer!” said the parrot, and eyed the interne crookedly.

The Dummy had not heard him, of course. He sat looking over the parapet toward the river, with one knotted hand smoothing the bird’s ruffled plumage and such a look of wretchedness in his eyes that it hurt to see it. God’s fools, who cannot reason, can feel. Some instinct of despair had seized him for its own–some conception, perhaps, of what life would never mean to him. Before it, the interne’s wrath gave way to impotency.