For the life of him, he could not answer. He only lay there with his mouth open, looking at her, while she straightened the contents of her basket. One more moment and she would be gone. Quin staked all on a chance shot. "Thank you, Miss Eleanor Bartlett," he said, with that ridiculous blush that was so out of keeping with his audacity. She looked at him in amazement; then her face broke into a smile of recognition. "Well, bless my soul, if it isn't Sergeant Slim! What are you doing here?" "Same thing I been doing for six months," said Quin sheepishly; "counting the planks in the ceiling." "But I thought you had got well. Oh, I hope it wasn't the dancing----" "Lord, no," said Quin, keeping his hand over his bristly chin. "I'm husky, all right. Only they've got so used to seeing me laying around that they can't bear to let me go." "Do you have to lie flat on your back like that, with no pillow or anything?" "It ain't so bad, except at mess-time." "And you can't even sit up to eat?" "Not supposed to." Miss Bartlett eyed him compassionately. "I am coming out twice a week now--Mondays and Fridays--and I'm going to bring you something nice every time I come. How long will you be here?" "Three weeks," said Quin--adding, with a funny twist of his lip, "three weeks and three days." "Oh! Were you the boy on the porch? How funny I didn't recognize you! I'm going to ask Captain Phipps to let you off those extra days." "No, you mustn't." Quin objected earnestly; "I'll take what's coming to me. Besides," he added, "one of those days might be a Monday or a Friday!" This seemed to amuse her, for she smiled as she wrote his name and bed number in a small notebook, with the added entry: "Oyster soup, cigarettes, and a razor." Just as she was leaving, she remembered something and turned back. "How did you know my name?" she asked with lively curiosity. "Didn't the Captain call it on the porch?" "Did he? But not my first name. How on earth _did_ you know that?" "Perhaps I guessed it," Quin said, looking mysterious. And just then a nurse came along and thrust the thermometer back in his mouth, and the conversation was abruptly ended. Of course the calendar must have been right about the three weeks that followed; there probably were seven days in each week and twenty-four hours in each day. But Quin wasn't sure about it. He knew beyond doubt that there were three Mondays and four Fridays and one wholly gratuitous and never-to-be-forgotten Sunday when Miss Bartlett brought his dinner from town, and insisted upon cutting his chicken for him and feeding him custard with a spoon. The rest of the days were lost in abstract time, during which Quin had his hair cut and his face shaved, and did bead-work.