“Much too pink!” he murmured as the pillow engulfed him.
What steps Mr. Bennett would have taken at this juncture, one cannot say. Probably he would have given the thing up in despair and retired, for it is weary work forgiving a sleeping man. But, as he bent above his slumbering friend, a drop of warm grease detached itself from the candle and fell into Mr. Mortimer’s exposed ear. The sleeper wakened.
“What? What? What?” he exclaimed, bounding up. “Who’s that?”
“It’s me—Rufus,” said Mr. Bennett. “Henry, I’m dying!”
“Drying?”
“Dying!”
Mr. Mortimer yawned cavernously. The mists of sleep were engulfing him again.
“Eight rabbits sitting on the lawn,” he muttered. “But too pink! Much too pink!”
And, as if considering he had borne his full share in the conversation and that no more could be expected of him, he snuggled down into the pillow again.
Mr. Bennett’s sense of injury became more acute. For a moment he was strongly tempted to try the restorative effects of candle-grease once more, but, just as he was on the point of succumbing, a shooting pain, as if somebody had run a red-hot needle into his tongue, reminded him of his situation. A dying man cannot pass his last hours dropping candle-grease into people’s ears. After all, it was perhaps a little late, and there would be plenty of time to become reconciled to Mr. Mortimer to-morrow. His task now was to seek out Bream and bring him the glad news of his renewed engagement.