Lucky disregarded these criticisms. "Prrrrt-prt," he repeated peremptorily.
But now that his hypnotic daze was broken, Phil once again felt over-poweringly sleepy. "I know that mew," he mumbled muzzily at the green blur beyond the shimmering fence of his eyelashes. "You're hungry. Well, I s'pose you deserve a feed after all the wonders you did. But I haven't got any cranberry sauce right now. I'll get you something to eat ... later ... on."
"Prrrt-prt!" Lucky demanded in the outraged tones of an honest workman who finds himself cheated of his pay.
But Phil was beyond reach of any appeal. "G'night," he told Lucky in the kindliest possible way and dropped off.
He dreamed of things far off and strange and ominous, though misty. He dreamed of dark fronded forests and small animals screeching. The screeches grew louder and he fled out of his dream altogether into the jeep parked in the blind end driveway in the little square.
For a moment he seemed to see the ghosts of the dark fronded trees and hear the echo of the dream screeches, but then he realized that the former were the square's unpruned shrubs, while the latter were the squeals and cries of schoolgirls scattering out of a building beyond.
He realized groggily that they must be coming from school—no, from afternoon school, since the sunlight wasn't slanting at all deeply into the square, and that he must have slept here undisturbed all day.
And then, he became aware that his lap and heart were cold and that Lucky was gone.