Imre opened his eyes.
"Great Arpád!, he exclaimed, smiling sleeppily, "is it so late? You are dressing for the evening!"
"It is five o'clock", I answered. But what difference does that make? Don't budge. Go to sleep again, if you choose. You need not think of getting supper at home. We will go to the F—Restaurant."
"So be it. And perhaps I shall ask you to keep me till morning, my dear fellow! I am no longer sleepy, but somehow or other I do feel most frightfully knocked-out! Those country roads are misery..... And I am a poor sleeper often,.... that it is, in a way. I get to worrying... to wondering over all sorts of things that there's no good in studying about... in daylight or dark."
"You never told me till lately, in one of your letters, that you were so much of an insomniac, Imre. Is it new?"
"Not in the least new. I have not wished to say anything about it to anybody. What's the use? Oh, there many are things that I haven't
