He repaired the puncture and replaced the tube and tyre. When he had finished and made as if to stand up, he gave a sharp cry of pain, clapped his hand to the small of his back and sank down again on his knees.

“Hul-lo!” Nurse Kettle ejaculated. “What’s all this? ’Bago?”

Commander Syce swore under his breath. Between clenched teeth he implored her to go away. “Most frightfully sorry,” he groaned. “Ask you to excuse me. Ach!”

It was now that Nurse Kettle showed the quality that caused people to prefer her to grander and more up-to-date nurses. She exuded dependability, resourcefulness and authority. Even the common and pitilessly breezy flavour of her remarks was comfortable. To Commander Syce’s conjurations to leave him alone, followed in the extremity of his pain by furious oaths, she paid no attention. She went down on all fours beside him, enticed and aided him towards the bench, encouraged him to use it and her own person as aids to rising, and finally had him, though almost bent double, on his feet. She helped him into his house and lowered him down on a sofa in a dismal drawing-room.

“Down-a-bumps,” she said. Sweating and gasping, he reclined and glared at her. “Now, what are we going to do about you, I wonder? Did I or did I not see a rug in the hall? Wait a bit.”

She went out and came back with a rug. She called him “dear” and, taking his pain seriously, covered him up, went out again and returned with a glass of water. “Making myself at home, I suppose you’re thinking. Here’s a couple of aspirins to go on with,” said Nurse Kettle.

He took them without looking at her. “Please don’t trouble,” he groaned. “Thank you. Under my own steam.” She gave him a look and went out again.

In her absence, he attempted to get up but was galvanized with a monstrous jab of lumbago and subsided in agony. He began to think she had gone for good and to wonder how he was to support life while the attack lasted, when he heard her moving about in some remote part of the house. In a moment she came in with two hot-water bags.

“At this stage,” she said, “heat’s the ticket.”

“Where did you get those things?”

“Borrowed ’em from the Cartarettes.”

“My God!”

She laid them against his back.

“Dr. Mark’s coming to look at you,” she said.

“My God!”

“He was at the Cartarettes and if you ask me, there’s going to be some news from that quarter before any of us are much older. At least,” Nurse Kettle added rather vexedly, “I would have said so, if it hadn’t been for them all looking a bit put out.” To his horror she began to take off his shoes.

“With a yo-heave-ho,” said Nurse Kettle out of compliment to the navy. “Aspirin doing its stuff?”

“I… I think so. I do beg…”

“I suppose your bedroom’s upstairs?”

“I do BEG…”

“We’ll see what the doctor says, but I’d suggest you doss down in the housekeeper’s room to save the stairs. I mean to say,” Nurse Kettle added with a hearty laugh, “always provided there’s no housekeeper.”

She looked into his face so good-humouredly and with such an air of believing him to be glad of her help that he found himself accepting it.

“Like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“No thank you.”

“Well, it won’t be anything stronger unless the doctor says so.”

He reddened, caught her eye and grinned.

“Come,” she said, “that’s better.”

“I’m really ashamed to trouble you so much.”

“I might have said the same about my bike, mightn’t I? There’s the doctor.”

She bustled out again and came back with Mark Lacklander.

Mark, who was a good deal paler than his patient, took a crisp line with Syce’s expostulations.

“All right,” he said. “I daresay I’m entirely extraneous. This isn’t a professional visit if you’d rather not.”

“Great grief, my dear chap, I don’t mean that. Only too grateful but… I mean… busy man… right itself…”

“Well, suppose I take a look-see,” Mark suggested. “We won’t move you.”

The examination was brief. “If the lumbago doesn’t clear up, we can do something a bit more drastic,” Mark said, “but in the meantime Nurse Kettle’ll get you to bed…”

“Good God!”

“…and look in again to-morrow morning. So will I. You’ll need one or two things; I’ll ring up the hospital and get them sent out at once. All right?”

“Thank you. Thank you. You don’t,” said Syce, to his own surprise, “look terribly fit yourself. Sorry to have dragged you in.”

“That’s all right. We’ll bring your bed in here and put it near the telephone. Ring up if you’re in difficulties. By the way, Mrs. Cartarette offered…”

“NO!” shouted Commander Syce and turned purple,

“…to send in meals,” Mark added. “But of course you may be up and about again to-morrow. In the meantime I think we can safely leave you to Nurse Kettle. Good-night.”

When he had gone, Nurse Kettle said cheerfully, “You’ll have to put up with me, it seems, if you don’t want lovely ladies all round you. Now we’ll get you washed up and settled for the night.”

Half an hour later when he was propped up in bed with a cup of hot milk and a plate of bread and butter and the lamp within easy reach, Nurse Kettle looked down at him with her quizzical air.

“Well,” she said, “I shall now, as they say, love you and leave you. Be good and if you can’t be good, be careful.”

“Thank you,” gabbled Commander Syce, nervously. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She had plodded over to the door before his voice arrested her. “I… ah… I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you are familiar with Aubrey’s Brief Lives, are you?”

“No,” she said. “Who was he when he was at home?”

“He wrote a ‘brief life’ of a man called Sir Jonas Moore. It begins: ‘Sciatica he cured it, by boyling his buttocks.’ I’m glad, at least, you don’t propose to try that remedy.”

“Well!” cried Nurse Kettle delightedly. “You are coming out of your shell, to be sure. Nighty-bye.”

During the next three days Nurse Kettle, pedalling about her duties, had occasion to notice, and she was sharp in such matters, that something untoward was going on in the district. Wherever she went, whether it was to attend upon Lady Lacklander’s toe, or upon the abscess of the gardener’s child at Hammer, or upon Commander Syce’s strangely persistent lumbago, she felt a kind of heightened tension in the behaviour of her patients and also in the behaviour of young Dr. Mark Lacklander. Rose Cartarette, when she encountered her in the garden, was white and jumpy; the Colonel looked strained and Mrs. Cartarette singularly excited.

“Kettle,” Lady Lackiander said, on Wednesday, wincing a little as she endured the approach of a fomentation to her toe, “have you got the cure for a bad conscience?”

Nurse Kettle did not resent being addressed in this restoration-comedy fashion by Lady Lacklander, who had known her for some twenty years and used the form with an intimate and even an affectionate air much prized by Nurse Kettle.

“Ah,” said the latter, “there’s no mixture-as-before for that sort of trouble.”

“No. How long,” Lady Lacklander went on, “have you been looking after us in Swevenings, Kettle?”

“Thirty years if you count five in the hospital at Chyning.”

“Twenty-five years of fomentations, enemas, slappings, and thumpings,” mused Lady Lacklander. “And I suppose you’ve learnt quite a lot about us in that time. There’s nothing like illness to reveal character and there’s nothing like a love affair,” she added unexpectedly, “to disguise it. This is agony,” she ended mildly, referring to the fomentation.

“Stick it if you can, dear,” Nurse Kettle advised, and Lady Lacklander for her part did not object to being addressed as “dear” by Nurse Kettle, who continued, “How do you mean, I wonder, about love disguising character?”

“When people are in love,” Lady Lacklander said with a little scream as a new fomentation was applied, “they instinctively present themselves to each other in their most favourable light. They assume pleasing characteristics as unconsciously as a cock pheasant puts on his spring plumage. They display such virtues as magnanimity, charitableness and modesty and wait for them to be admired. They develop a positive genius for suppressing their least attractive points. They can’t help it, you know, Kettle. It’s just the behaviourism of courtship.”