"He just collapsed like an opera-hat in his cold shower."
"But he was always talking about his—his balanced life," gasped Gretchen. "He had it on his mind."
"I know," said the doctor. "He's been babbling about it all morning. I think it's driven him a little mad. He worked pretty hard at it, you know."
"At what?" demanded Roger in bewilderment.
"At keeping his life balanced." He turned to Gretchen. "Now all I'll prescribe for this lady here is a good rest. If she'll just stay around the house for a few days and take forty winks of sleep she'll be as fit as ever. She's been under some strain."
"Doctor," exclaimed Roger hoarsely, "don't you think I'd better have a rest or something? I've been working pretty hard lately."
"You!" Doctor Gregory laughed, slapped him violently on the back. "My boy, I never saw you looking better in your life."
Roger turned away quickly to conceal his smile—winked forty times, or almost forty times, at the autographed picture of Mr. George Tompkins, which hung slightly askew on the bedroom wall.