Mr. Bennett, left alone, mused for awhile, then, rising from his bed, put on his dressing-gown, took his candle, and went down the passage.
In a less softened mood, the first thing Mr. Bennett would have done on crossing the threshold of the door facing the staircase would have been to notice resentfully that Mr. Mortimer, with his usual astuteness, had collared the best bedroom in the house. The soft carpet gave out no sound as Mr. Bennett approached the wide and luxurious bed. The light of the candle fell on the back of a semi-bald head. Mr. Mortimer was sleeping with his face buried in the pillow. It cannot have been good for him, but that was what he was doing. From the portion of the pillow in which his face was buried strange gurgles proceeded, like the distant rumble of an approaching train on the Underground.
“Mortimer,” said Mr. Bennett.
The train stopped at a station to pick up passengers, and rumbled on again.
“Henry!” said Mr. Bennett, and nudged his sleeping friend in the small of the back.
“Leave it on the mat,” mumbled Mr. Mortimer, stirring slightly and uncovering one corner of his mouth.
Mr. Bennett began to forget his remorse in a sense of injury. He felt like a man with a good story to tell who can get nobody to listen to him. He nudged the other again, more vehemently this time. Mr. Mortimer made a noise like a gramophone when the needle slips, moved restlessly for a moment, then sat up, staring at the candle.
“Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!” said Mr. Mortimer, and sank back again. He had begun to rumble before he touched the pillow.
“What do you mean, rabbits?” said Mr. Bennett sharply.
The not unreasonable query fell on deaf ears. Mr. Mortimer was already entering a tunnel.