“Yes; don't you?”
“Cynara! Cynara! Ye-es—an autumn, rose-petal, whirling, dead-leaf sound.”
“Good! Pipped. Shut up, Ossy—don't snore!”
“Ah, poor old dog! Let him. Shuffle for me, please. Oh! there goes another card!” Her knee was touching his—!...
The book had dropped—Summerhay started.
Dash it! Hopeless! And, turning round in that huge armchair, he snoozed down into its depths. In a few minutes, he was asleep. He slept without a dream.
It was two hours later when the same friend, seeking distraction, came on him, and stood grinning down at that curly head and face which just then had the sleepy abandonment of a small boy's. Maliciously he gave the chair a little kick.
Summerhay stirred, and thought: 'What! Where am I?'
In front of the grinning face, above him, floated another, filmy, charming. He shook himself, and sat up. “Oh, damn you!”
“Sorry, old chap!”