But she did not give him any opportunity to complete the sentence.
"Don't be absurd; you're usually quite sensible. Mother and I had it all decided hours ago. You're to stay with us. Your room is all ready for you—and your bath," she added.
He acknowledged the touch with an appreciative but weary smile.
"Well, then, if you really don't mind, I'll take you up," he said.
"Will you have supper first?"
"Thanks, no—nothing but sleep. I'm ashamed of being so fearfully tired—you must excuse me. But I don't believe any man can stay awake indefinitely."
"No, I don't believe any man can," Helen agreed.
It was ten o'clock the next day when Smith opened his eyes once more upon a normal world. The sun was shining brightly, but it was some moments before he could assure himself that he was actually awake again. The twelve hours' sleep, during which apparently not one muscle had he stirred, had gone far to repair the ravages of thirty-six hours' steady wakefulness, and a cold bath did the rest. The two ladies were found to be in the dining room, still absorbed in the morning edition of a newspaper whose building had escaped the sweep of the conflagration.
"Why, it's only half-past ten!" was Helen's greeting. "I didn't expect you so early. Mother suggested that we wait breakfast for you; but I said it would be much closer your wishes if we waited lunch instead."
"Well, I think I must have condensed an enormous amount of sleep into the last twelve hours," said Smith; "for I feel as well as ever. Tell me what has happened—I see you have the papers."