People who pretend (for it must be pretence) that they enjoy their holiday in the country, explain that the hills or the sea give them such an appetite. I could never myself feel the delight of being able to manage an extra herring for breakfast, but it should be pointed out that neither mountains nor oceans give you such an appetite as a holiday in bed. What makes people eat more anywhere is that they have nothing else to do, and in bed you have lots of time for meals. As for the quality of the food supplied, there is no comparison. In the highlands it is ham and eggs all day till you sicken. At the seaside it is fish till the bones stick in your mouth. But in bed--oh, there you get something worth eating. You don't take three big meals a day, but twelve little ones, and each time it is something different from the last. There are delicacies for breakfast, for your four luncheons and your five dinners. You explain to your wife that you have lost your appetite, and she believes you, but at the same time she has the sense to hurry on your dinner. At the clatter of dishes (for which you have been lying listening) you raise your poor head, and say faintly: "Really, Marion, I can't touch food." "But this is nothing," she says, "only the wing of a partridge." You take a side glance at it, and see that there is also the other wing and the body and two legs. Your alarm thus dispelled, you say: "I really can't." "But, dear, it is so beautifully cooked." "Yes, but I have no appetite." "But try to take it, John, for my sake." Then for her sake you say she can leave it on the chair, and perhaps you will just taste it. As soon as she has gone you devour that partridge, and when she comes back she has the sense to say: "Why, you have scarcely eaten anything. What could you take for supper?" You say you can take nothing, but if she likes she can cook a large sole, only you won't be able to touch it. [Illustration: "But try to take it, John, for my sake"] "Poor dear," she says, "your appetite has completely gone," and then she rushes to the kitchen to cook the sole with her own hands. In half an hour she steals into your room with it, and then you (who have been wondering why she is so long) start up protesting: "I hope, Marion, this is nothing for me." "Only the least bit of a sole, dear." "But I told you I could eat nothing." "Well, this is nothing, it is so small." You look again, and see with relief that it is a large sole. "I would much rather that you took it away." "But, dear----" "I tell you I have no appetite." "Of course I know that; but how can you hope to preserve your strength if you eat so little? You have had nothing all day." You glance at her face to see if she is in earnest, for you can remember three breakfasts, four luncheons and two dinners; but evidently she is not jesting. Then you yield. "Oh, well, to keep my health up I may just put a fork into it."