"Great Scott," he shouted, "you're not still in bed?"
"I am not. This is telepathic suggestion. You think I'm in bed; I appear to be in bed; in reality there is no bed here. Do go away—I haven't had a wink of sleep yet."
"But, man, look at the lovely morning!"
"Simpson," I said sternly, rolling up the sleeves of my pyjamas with great deliberation, "I have had one visitor already to-day. His corpse is now in the candlestick. It is an omen, Simpson."
"I thought you'd like to come outside with me, and I'd show you my swing."
"Yes, yes, I shall like to see that, but AFTER breakfast, Simpson. I suppose one of the gardeners put it up for you? You must show me your box of soldiers and your tricycle horse, too. But run away now, there's a good boy."
"My golf-swing, idiot."
I sat up in bed and stared at him in sheer amazement. For a long time words wouldn't come to me. Simpson backed nervously to the door.
"I saw the Coronation," I said at last, and I dropped back on my pillow and went to sleep.
. . . . . .