She went out, leaving Baltazar sitting on the edge of the bed. Presently entered Pillivant, who burst into heartiness of greeting. Delighted he was to see him looking so well. At one time he half expected there was going to be a funeral in the house. Heard that he wanted some togs. Only too happy to rig him out. Would pick out all the necessary kit to-morrow. “But I want clothes now,” said Baltazar. Pillivant shook his head. “Must obey doctor’s orders. By disobeying in the first place I nearly had a cold corpse on my hands, and if there’s one thing Mrs. Pillivant dislikes more than another, it’s a corpse. When her old aunt died here, she went half off her chump. No, no, old man,” he continued, in soothing tones which exasperated Baltazar, “you be good and lie doggo to-day, as the doctor says, and to-morrow we’ll see about getting up.” “You’ve got the whip-hand of me,” said Baltazar, glowering. “That’s about it,” grinned Pillivant. “And you’re not used to not having your own way.” “I suppose I’m not,” said Baltazar, looking at his host more kindly. “I don’t know but what you’re right. A little discipline might be beneficial for me.” He slipped back into the bed and nodded to the nurse, who settled him comfortably. “A little contact with other people might restore my manners. As I’m beholden to you for everything, Mr. Pillivant, I may at least be civil. As a matter of fact, I’m infinitely grateful, and I place myself in your hands unreservedly.” “Oh, that’s all right, old man,” said Pillivant. “It isn’t all right,” cried Baltazar, realizing, in his self-condemnatory way, the ungracious attitude he had adopted from the first towards his host. “I’ve been merely rude. I’m sorry. I’ve lived in China long enough to know that no personal catastrophe can excuse lack of courtesy. By obeying your medical man I see that I shall give least trouble to your household.” “You needn’t talk like a book about it,” said Pillivant. “I’ve lived with books so long,” replied Baltazar, “that perhaps I have lost the ways of contemporary Englishmen.” Pillivant threw him a furtive and suspicious glance. “Most books are all damn rot,” he declared. “You’re not the first philosopher that has enunciated that opinion,” said Baltazar, with a laugh. “Didn’t a character in one of the old dramatists—I think—say ‘To mind the inside of a book is to entertain oneself with the forced product of another man’s brain’? No. It’s the practical men who do things, isn’t it?” “I’m a practical man myself,” said Pillivant, “and seeing as how I started as an office-boy at eight shillings a week, I’ve done a blooming lot of things. Look”—he swung a chair, and sat down near the bed, and bent confidentially towards Baltazar—“in July fourteen I was only a little builder and contractor up at Holloway. When Kitchener in September called for his million men——”