The melancholy progress up and down the room re-commenced, and with it the mumbled protests from the patient.  As we walked, and especially as we turned, I caught frequent glimpses of the housekeeper’s face.  But it was nearly always in profile.  She appeared to avoid looking me in the face, though she did so once or twice; and on each of these occasions her eyes were directed at me in a normal manner without any sign of a squint.  Nevertheless, I had the impression that when her face was turned away from me she squinted.  The “swivel eye”—­the left—­was towards me as she held the patient’s right arm, and it was almost continuously turned in my direction, whereas I felt convinced that she was really looking straight before her, though, of course, her right eye was invisible to me.  It struck me, even at the time, as an odd affair, but I was too much concerned about my charge to give it much consideration.

Meanwhile the patient continued to revive apace.  And the more he revived, the more energetically did he protest against this wearisome perambulation.  But he was evidently a polite gentleman, for, muddled as his faculties were, he managed to clothe his objections in courteous and even gracious forms of speech singularly out of agreement with the character that Mr. Weiss had given him.

“I thangyou,” he mumbled thickly.  “Ver’ good take s’much trouble.  Think I will lie down now.”  He looked wistfully at the bed, but I wheeled him about and marched him once more down the room.  He submitted unresistingly, but as we again approached the bed he reopened the matter.

“S’quite s’fficient, thang you.  Gebback to bed now.  Much ’bliged frall your kindness”—­here I turned him round—­“no, really; m’feeling rather tired.  Sh’like to lie down now, f’you’d be s’good.”

“You must walk about a little longer, Mr. Graves,” I said.  “It would be very bad for you to go to sleep again.”

He looked at me with a curious, dull surprise, and reflected awhile as if in some perplexity.  Then he looked at me again and said: 

“Thing, sir, you are mistake—­mistaken me—­mist—­”

Here Mrs. Schallibaum interrupted sharply: 

“The doctor thinks it’s good for you to walk about.  You’ve been sleeping too much.  He doesn’t want you to sleep any more just now.”

“Don’t wanter sleep; wanter lie down,” said the patient.

“But you mustn’t lie down for a little while.  You must walk about for a few minutes more.  And you’d better not talk.  Just walk up and down.”

“There’s no harm in his talking,” said I; “in fact it’s good for him.  It will help to keep him awake.”

“I should think it would tire him,” said Mrs. Schallibaum; “and it worries me to hear him asking to lie down when we can’t let him.”

She spoke sharply and in an unnecessarily high tone so that the patient could not fail to hear.  Apparently he took in the very broad hint contained in the concluding sentence, for he trudged wearily and unsteadily up and down the room for some time without speaking, though he continued to look at me from time to time as if something in my appearance puzzled him exceedingly.  At length his intolerable longing for repose overcame his politeness and he returned to the attack.