Anthony thanked her, and she left him alone.
For Patch's sake, Anthony sat very still.
Considering that he had been afoot since half-past five, it is not surprising that after a little space he fell asleep.
Queer idiotic fancies bestrode his dreams: what was impossible came naturally to pass: earth became wonderland, and no one wondered. Patch and Miss French lay in sick beds upon respective mantelpieces: Lord Pomfret had come to mend the telephone, and his tool-bag was full of roses—the scent of them filled the room. Anthony himself was forging a two-pound note upon a page of Bradshaw, and was terribly afraid that it would not pass muster: something weighty depended on this, and all the time the scent of the roses was hindering his efforts: it came between him and the paper, so that he could not see: he brushed it away angrily, but it came back….
He awoke suddenly, for no reason.
Patch was lying very still, breathing more easily. His eye met
Anthony's, and the tip of a red tongue came into view.
The faintest suggestion of perfume was in the air. This was so slight and fleeting that Anthony, after a little, charged it to his imagination and thought no more of it.
Presently he rose and, setting his hat on the chair, where Patch could see it and so expect his return, strolled out on to the veranda.
From the depths of an easy-chair Valerie French lifted her eyes from The Times and smiled very charmingly.
"I'm glad you've come out," she said. "I think it's a mistake to sit there too long at a time."