“It is afternoon,” she replied, turning toward the window. “See—the sun is just sinking behind San Miniato.”
“Afternoon?” he queried, vaguely—“afternoon, and I still in bed?”
“You have not been well,” she volunteered, guardedly, carefully following the doctor’s injunctions. “Don’t bother now; you will be feeling much better in the morning.”
“Not well?” Armstrong’s mind was groping around for some familiar landmark upon which to fasten. “I was at the library—was it this morning?—Cerini was there, Miss Thayer was there—where is Miss Thayer?”
“She went out only a moment ago. But don’t try to think about it now. It will be much better for you to do that later.”
He weakly acquiesced and closed his eyes, still holding her hand firmly grasped in his own. The doctor found him gently sleeping, with Helen watching patiently beside him, when he entered the room an hour later.
She held up her disengaged hand warningly. “He is himself again,” she whispered.
“Good!” replied Dr. Montgomery, with satisfaction. “Tell me about it.”
“That is splendid,” he said, when she had recounted the details; “he is progressing famously. You won’t be able to keep him from questioning, but try to let the awakening come as gradually as possible.”
The morning brought renewed strength to the invalid. The nurse called Helen as soon as Armstrong wakened, and he plied her with countless interrogations. Uncle Peabody came in to see him immediately after a light breakfast had been served, but Inez, upon one pretext or another, delayed entering the sick-room.