It was a novel experience. Maybe he might write an article about it for one of the Sunday newspapers some day—“How It Feels for a Sane Person to be Forcibly Detained in an Insane Asylum, by One who Has Been There.” The editor could put all manner of gay and giddy head-lines over such an experience. Bob tried to chronicle his feelings in the padded cell, but he couldn’t conjure up anything awful or harrowing. There weren’t spiders, or rats, or any crawly things to lend picturesqueness to the situation. It was only deadly quiet—the kind of quiet he needed. He slept most of those first two days, making up for hours of lost sleep. His swollen eye became less painful and his appetite grew large and normal. He had to eat with his fingers because they were afraid to trust him with a knife and fork, but he told himself cheerfully that high-class Arabs still ate that way, and that all he had to do was to sit cross-legged, to be strictly _comme il faut_—that is, from the Arab’s standpoint. Since he had adopted truth as his mentor, Bob had learned, however, that “what should be” or “what shouldn’t,” or “mustn’t,” depends a great deal upon the standpoint, and he was beginning to be very suspicious, or critical, about the standpoint. The third day the doctor in charge thought he could trust him in a room without pads. Bob had a good color, his eye was clear and his appearance generally reassuring, so they gave him now the cutest little cubby-hole, with a cunning little bed and a dear little window, with flowers outside and iron bars between the inmate and the flowers. The managing-medico proudly called Bob’s attention to the flowers and the view. One gazing out could see miles and miles of beautiful country. The managing-med. talked so much about that view that Bob chimed in and said it was lovely, too, only, it reminded him of the bone set just beyond reach of a dog chained to _his_ cute little cubby-hole; or the jug of water and choice viands the Bedouins of the desert set before their victim after they have buried him to the neck in the sand. Bob was going on, trying to think of other felicitous comparisons, when he caught a look in the managing-med’s. eye that stopped him. “I wonder if you are well enough, after all, to appreciate this cozy and home-like little apartment?” said the med. musingly. Bob hastily apologized for the figures of speech. The padded place was very restful, no doubt, but he was quite rested now. Any more padded-room kind of rest would be too much. He looked at the view and expatiated upon it, even calling attention to certain charming details of the landscape. The flowers made a charming touch of color and they were just the kind of flowers he liked—good, old-fashioned geraniums! He could say all this and still tell the truth. The medico studied him attentively; then he concluded he would risk it and permit Bob to stay in the room.