"You're going to bed in decent time to-night," I told him. "I'm going to see Nurse, and find out if she knows of any one she can trust to come and help her. And I'm going to keep you out of the sick-room at the point of a bayonet if you've got one."
I had expected a protest, but none came. He sat with closed eyes, resting his head on his hand.
"I suppose that will be best," he assented at last.
"And now you're coming to get something to eat," I said, leading him into the dining-room.
"I'm not hungry," he complained.
"But you're going to eat a great deal," I said, pushing him into his chair and selecting a serviceable, sharp-pronged pickle-fork.
After luncheon I had my usual siesta, prolonged rather beyond my usual hour. It was five o'clock when I awoke, and I found the Seraph playing with a sheet of paper. He had written "Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday" on it, and after "Monday," "12.0 P.M."
"What's all this?" I asked.
"Our days of grace."
I added "Friday week" to the calendar.