I don’t like to be rude, but I admit that I hate being bothered about Shakespeare, and I yawned.
“Good night,” he said snappishly, and was gone.
Presently I heard him again, just as I was dropping into a doze.
“You won’t think, in the morning, that this was all a dream, will you? Can I do anything to impress it on your memory? Suppose I shrivel your left wrist with a touch of my hand? Or shall I leave ‘a sable score of fingers four’ burned on the table? Something of that sort is usually done.”
“Oh, pray don’t take the trouble,” I said. “I’m sure Lady Perilous would not like to have the table injured, and she might not altogether believe my explanation. As for myself, I’ll be content with your word for it that you were really here. Can I bury your bones for you, or anything? Very well, as you must be off, good night!”
“No, thanks,” he replied. “By the way, I’ve had an idea about my apparitions in disguise. Perhaps it is my ‘Unconscious Self’ that does them. You have read about the ‘Unconscious Self’ in the Spectator?”
Then he really went.
A nun in grey, who moaned and wrung her hands, remained in the room for a short time, but was obviously quite automatic.
I slept till the hot water was brought in the morning.