of his hand the
boy stirred uneasily. When it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched
in pain. He moaned as men moan under the influence of some anaesthetic,
without possessing the power to break through the narrow partition that
separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the
other. At last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then
another. Finally the babbling became articulate.

"For God's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!"

And all at once the benignant smile on Reginald's features was changed
to a look of savage fierceness. He no longer resembled the man of
culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. He took his hand
from Ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open
door.

Hardly had he disappeared when Ernest awoke. For a moment he looked
around, like a hunted animal, then sighed with relief and buried his
head in his hand. At that moment a knock at the door was heard, and
Reginald re-entered, calm as before.

"I declare," he exclaimed, "you have certainly been sleeping the sleep
of the just."

"It isn't laziness," Ernest replied, looking up rather pleased at the
interruption. "But I've a splitting headache."

"Perhaps those naps are not good for your health."

"Probably. But of late I have frequently found it necessary to exact
from the day-hours the sleep which the night refuses me. I suppose it is
all due to indigestion, as you have suggested. The stomach is the source
of all evil."

"It is also the source of all good. The Greeks made it the seat of the
soul. I have always claimed that the most important item in a great
poet's biography is an exact reproduction of his menu."

"True, a man who eats a heavy beefsteak for breakfast in the morning is
incapable of writing a sonnet in the afternoon."

"Yes," Reginald added, "we are what we eat and what our forefathers have
eaten before us. I ascribe the staleness of American poetry to the
griddle-cakes of our Puritan ancestors. I am sorry we cannot go deeper
into the subject at present. But I have an invitation to dinner where I
shall study, experimentally, the influence of French sauces on my
versification."

"Good-bye."

"Au revoir." And, with a wave of the hand, Reginald left the room.

When the door had closed behind him, Ernest's thoughts took a more
serious turn. The tone of light bantering in which the preceding
conversation had taken place had been assumed