It was a large room bright with sunshine and yellow paint, and containing twenty beds, all occupied. Linda was dying in company-in company and with all the modern conveniences. The air was continuously alive with gay synthetic melodies. At the foot of every bed, confronting its moribund occupant, was a television box. Television was left on, a running tap, from morning till night. Every quarter of an hour the prevailing perfume of the room was automatically changed. "We try," explained the nurse, who had taken charge of the Savage at the door, "we try to create a thoroughly pleasant atmosphere here-something between a first-class hotel and a feely-palace, if you take my meaning."