Jimmie.
I ought to be, but I’m not. Directly I laid my pretty head on my pillow I went off, and never stirred till I found the breakfast-tray on my chest. Reckoning on her fingers. Five to six—six to seven—seven to eight—eight to nine—nine to ten—ten to eleven. I’ve had six hours; that’s not so dusty. To Lily, slyly. You didn’t sleep very soundly, probably?
Lily.
Not very.
Jimmie.
Smiling from ear to ear. Excited? Lily shrugs her shoulders. There is a silence and then Jimmie, still beaming, looks round and sees that Mrs. Upjohn has seated herself upon the fauteuil-stool. May I sit down for a minute?
Lily.
Of course, Jimmie; do.
Jimmie sits in the arm-chair by the centre table, awaiting some communication which doesn’t come. Mrs. Upjohn drums upon the table with her fingers and Lily busies herself with re-arranging the cushions on the settee.
Jimmie.