"Yes, it's coming," she laughed. "But it won't get here this week. Here's something that is a good deal better."
She squeezed out a thimbleful of orange juice and placed it in a low cup with a long snout like a locomotive oil can, designed to poke in out-of-the-way places. With this device she was able to get through my beard and find my mouth. As she gently tipped it, the goodly nectar trickled upon my desert tongue, to be quickly evaporated in that arid area before it reached far along the parched wastes. I wanted to swim in it, but these hospitals provide poor entertainment for their patrons.
"Pretty flowers there," said I, pointing to a great mass of roses and orchids, showing the freshness of recent arrival.
"Oh, she hasn't forgotten you"; and her large blue eyes danced playfully as she said it. I could see that those blue eyes would aggravate me yet, but I wanted to linger forever under the spell of their teasing.
"Who sent them?" I asked in surprise.
"Miss Tescheron."
I was about to say that I didn't know the lady, but I decided that the plot was too thick for a brain foddered on orange juice by the drop through a dripper, so I just threw the complications all over, willing to bide my time. Some accident had tossed me upon this bed of bruises, but I was pulling out and I gritted my bridge-work, determined to get out as quickly as possible and pick up my tasks again.
The following morning I felt like a new man. I could actually reach out for my food. Eighteen hours of sound sleep had put abundant life, hope and courage into me.
"What a fine color you have!" said the cheery nurse.
"That braces me," said I. "But what I want to get at is this: How did I come to get here? How long have I been here? How long must I stay here?"