These two between them practically ran the party, and both Sir Edwin and Lady Peaslake were glad that the weight of settling or explaining anything should be lifted off their shoulders. Sir Edwin sometimes held the Baedeker, but his real function was the keeping of a diary in which he put down the places they went to, the people they met, and the times of the trains. Lady Peaslake’s department was packing, hotels, and the purchasing of presents for a large circle of acquaintance. As for Lilian, Mildred’s sister, whatever pleased other people pleased her. Altogether it was a most delightful party.
They were however just a little subdued and quiet during that journey from Palermo to Girgenti. They had done Palermo in even less time than Baedeker had allowed for it, and such audacity must tell on the most robust of tourists. Furthermore they had made an early start, as they had to get to Girgenti for lunch, do the temples in the afternoon, and go on the next morning to Syracuse.
It was no wonder that Lady Peaslake was too weary to look out of the window, and that Harold yawned when Mildred explained at some length how it was that a Greek temple came to be built out of Greece.
“Poor boy! you’re tired,” she said, without bitterness, and without surprise.
Harold blushed at his impoliteness.
“We really do too much,” said Lady Peaslake. “I never bought that Sicilian cart for Mrs. Popham. It would have been the very thing. She will have something out of the way. If a thing’s at all ordinary she will hardly say thank you. Harold, would you try at Girgenti? Mind you beat them down. Four francs is the outside.”
“Certainly, Lady Peaslake.” His method of purchasing for her, was to pay whatever was asked, and to make good the difference out of his own pocket,
“Girgenti will produce more than Sicilian carts,” said Mildred, smoothing down the pages of the guide book. “In Greek times it was the second city of the island, wasn’t it? It was famous for the ability, wealth, and luxury of its inhabitants. You remember, Harold, it was called Acragas.”
“Acragas, Acragas,” chanted Harold, striving to rescue one word from the chaos. The effect was too much for him, and he gave another yawn.
“Really, Harold!” said Mildred, laughing. “You’re very much exhausted.”
“I’ve scarcely slept for three nights,” he replied in rather an aggrieved voice.
“Oh, my dear boy! I’m very sorry. I had no idea.”
“Why did not you tell me?” said Sir Edwin. “We would have started later. Yes, I see you do look tired.”
“It’s so queer. It’s ever since I’ve been in Sicily. Perhaps Girgenti will be better.”
“Have you never slept since Naples?”
“Oh, I did sleep for an hour or so last night. But that was because I used my dodge.”
“Dodge!” said Sir Edwin, “whatever do you mean!”
“You know it, don’t you? You pretend you’re someone else, and then you go asleep in no time.”
“Indeed I do not know it,” said Sir Edwin emphatically.
Mildred’s curiosity was aroused. She had never heard Harold say anything unexpected before, and she was determined to question him.
“How extremely interesting! How very interesting! I don’t know it either. Who do you imagine yourself to be?”
“Oh, no one—anyone. I just say to myself, ‘That’s someone lying awake. Why doesn’t he go to sleep if he’s tired?’ Then he—I mean I—do, and it’s all right.”
“But that is a very wonderful thing. Why didn’t you do it all three nights?”
“Well, to tell the truth,” said Harold, rather confused, “I promised Tommy I’d never do it again. You see, I used to do it, not only when I couldn’t sleep, but also when I was in the blues about something—or nothing—as one is, I don’t know why. It doesn’t get rid of them, but it kind of makes me go strong that I don’t care for them—I can’t explain. One morning Tommy came to see me, and I never knew him till he shook me. Naturally he was horribly sick, and made me promise never to do it again.”
“And why have you done it again?” said Sir Edwin.
“Well, I did hold out two nights. But last night I was so dead tired, I couldn’t think what I wanted to—of course you understand that: it’s rather beastly. All the night I had to keep saying ‘I’m lying awake, I’m lying awake, I’m lying awake,’ and it got more and more difficult. And when it was almost time to get up, I made a slip and said, ‘He’s lying awake’—and then off I went.”
“How very, very interesting,” said Mildred, and Lilian cried that it was a simply splendid idea, and that she should try it next time she had the toothache.
“Indeed, Lilian,” said her mother, “I beg you’ll do no such thing.”
“No, indeed,” said Sir Edwin, who was looking grave. “Harold, your friend was quite right. It is never safe to play tricks with the brain. I must say I’m astonished: you of all people!”
“Yes,” said Harold, looking at a very substantial hand. “I’m such a stodgy person. It is odd. It isn’t brain or imagination or anything like that. I simply pretend.”
“It is imagination,” said Mildred in a low determined voice.
“Whatever it is, it must stop,” said Sir Edwin. “It’s a dangerous habit. You must break yourself of it before it is fully formed.”
“Yes. I promised Tommy. I shall try again tonight,” said Harold, with a pitiful little sigh of fatigue.
“I’ll arrange to have a room communicating with yours. If you can’t sleep tonight, call me.”
“Thanks very much, I’m sure not to do it if you’re near. It only works when one’s alone. Tommy stopped it by taking rooms in the same house, which was decent of him.”
The conversation had woke them up. The girls were quiet, Lilian being awed, and Mildred being rather annoyed with her parents for their want of sympathy
