“Asleep at this time of day?” said the man incredulously.
“Yes, asleep,” answered Mrs. Davies sharply; “is he never to have any sleep?”
“Well, perhaps you will tell him Mr. Fry has come for the book as requested.”
“Couldn't think of disturbing him for that, Mr. Fry,” replied Mrs. Davies, not intermitting her work for a single moment.
“Very well, ma'am!” said Mr. Fry, in dudgeon. “I never was here before, and I shan't ever come again—that is all—” and off he went. Mrs. Davies showed her dismay at this threat by dusting on without once taking her eye or her mind off her job.
It was eight o'clock. Mr. Eden woke and found it almost dark.
He rose immediately. “Why, I have slept the day away,” thought he in dismay, “and my memorial to the Home Office; it is past post time, and I have not sent it.” He came hastily downstairs and entered the parlor; he found it in a frightful state. All the chairs were in the middle of the room, every part of which was choked up except a pathway three feet broad that ran by the side of the wall all round it. From this path all access into the interior was blocked by the furniture, which now stood upon an area frightfully diminished by this loss of three feet taken from each wall. Mrs. Davies was a character—a notable woman. Mr. Eden's heart sank at the sight.
To find himself put to rights gives a bachelor an innocent pleasure, but the preliminary process of being put entirely to wrongs crushes his soul. “Another fanatic let loose on me,” thought he, “and my room is like a road that is just mended, as they call it.” He peered about here and there through a grove of chairs whose legs were kicking in the air as they sat bosom downward upon their brethren, but he could see no memorial. He rang the bell and inquired of the servant whether she had seen it. While he was describing it to her Mrs. Davies broke in:
“I saw it—I picked it up off the floor—it was lying between the sofa and the table.”
“And what did you do with it?”