[Dreaming]
"Will you have all the apollinaris, Sir Jocelyn?"
Sydney Beaton looked up. He was vaguely conscious of having been roused from slumber by someone, possibly by the person who was standing by his side. He was still very far from being wide awake; his eyes, limbs, body, all were heavy. He had not a notion where he was. There was a real bed, in striking contrast to the makeshifts he had known of late; there were soft sheets, a soft pillow, and there were hangings. It was not really a large room, but, compared to the kind of accommodation with which he had recently been made familiar, it was palatial. There seemed to be some decent furniture, and a carpet on the floor. It was not well lighted; there was only one not over large window, on the other side of which was the November fog. What had happened to him? Where could he be? He put his wondering into words.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
The man at his bedside did not answer. He was holding in one hand a tray on which was a glass; in the other was a bottle, out of which he was pouring something into the glass. He repeated in another form his first inquiry:
"Will that be enough apollinaris, Sir Jocelyn?"
"I'm not Sir Jocelyn, if you're talking to me. What's in that glass?"
"A good pick-me-up. I think you will find it just about right, Sir Jocelyn." Sydney took the glass which the man advanced. Whatever its contents, they were pleasant to swallow.
"That's good, uncommon good. My word!" He had another drink. "I haven't tasted anything as good as that since"--he hesitated--"since I don't know when."
"I thought you'd find it refreshing, Sir Jocelyn?"