He was not transferred to a convalescent home; either there was no such institution available, or it was too full, he did not enquire; but this was the reason why he spent an unusually long time, in a semi-invalid condition, at the same hospital. As soon as he was no longer definitely ill, he persuaded the sister to write to Roderick saying that he had left the hospital and that the payments for the private ward need no longer be kept up; transferred to one of the smaller public wards, he lived a life half-way between that of the patients and the hospital staff, making himself useful in odd ways to fill in the time.

It seemed simple and natural, therefore, that when his cure was finally completed—by this time it was the middle of July—he should solve the problem of employment by taking on a job as orderly in the hospital. He had grown familiar with the place, inured to its curious blend of atmospheres—part factory, part hotel, part battle-ground, part mortuary—and had, in any case, no wish to leave its shelter and begin again the task at which he had already failed twice, the task of adjustment to the world. His physical cure had been successfully completed; his mental cure was taking longer, and the hospital offered facilities here too.

And so he moved no farther than a quiet, dingy lodging-house where he slept at night, spending most of the twenty-four hours inside the vast hospital. His work was not quite so congenial as window-cleaning had been; for one thing, it was irksome, in fine weather, not to be out of doors; still, it was simple, and fulfilled his major needs in being laborious but not quite back-breaking, and in being obviously useful—a badly-needed refreshment for his rudimentary social conscience.