Matilda! The girl who wanted to speak properly, the girl whom he had found in the smelly little theater. No! Not in the theater! In the train! He writhed and went hot, and his head began to throb, and he felt a strange want of coördination among the various parts of his body. "I'm afraid," he said, "I'm afraid I _am_ ill." "There! There!" said Mrs. Copas. "We'll soon pull you round. I'm used to the nursing; not that Mr. Copas is ever ill. He says a nartist can't afford to be ill, but we had a comic once who used to have fits." "It's very good of you. I must have been an incubus. I'm sure I must be taking you away from the theater." "We've got a new tune on the organ and we're doing splendid business. Mr. Copas _will_ be glad to hear you've asked for your spectacles. . . . Doctor says you mustn't talk." And, indeed, he had lost all desire to do so. His head ached so that he could not keep his eyes open, nor think, nor hear anything but a confused buzz, and he sank back into the luxury of feeling sorry for himself. Nothing broke in upon that sensation until suddenly the organ stopped. That startled him and set him listening. In the distance, muffled, he could hear the huge booming voice of Mr. Copas, but not what he said. "Nice people," he thought. "Nice kind people." There were three medicine bottles by his bed-side. They suddenly caught his eye and he gazed at them long and carefully. One was full and two were half empty. Their contents were brown, reddish, and white. "I must be very ill," he said to himself mournfully. There darted in on him a feeling of fun. "No one knows! I am ill and no one knows. Not a soul knows. They won't know. They won't ever know." That seemed to settle it. "They" sank away. He hurled defiance after them, opened, as it were, a trap-door in the past, and gloated over the sight of "them" hurtling down and down. He felt better after that. The pain in his head was almost gone. His bed seemed to be floating, drifting, turning on the tide, while it was moored to Mrs. Copas. He gazed at her and saw in her the comfortable, easy, hovering present. He had only to cut the painter to drift out into the wide future. When he opened his mouth to tell Mrs. Copas that he remembered her perfectly she laid her finger on her lips and said "Ssh!" and when he insisted on grunting out a word, she smacked the back of her fat hand roguishly and cried: "Naughty!" At that he giggled helplessly and went on giggling until he was near crying. "Histrionics!" said Mrs. Copas, and gave him brandy. Matilda appeared at the door and was pushed out. At that Mr. Mole, who had seen her, began to weep and sobbed like a disappointed child, and went on sobbing until Matilda was allowed to come in and sit by his side. She sat on the bed, and he stopped his sobbing as abruptly as a horse will come to a standstill after a mad sunset gallop. Mrs. Copas left them.