XLVII
Oliver wakes around one o'clock with a dim consciousness that noisy crowds of people have been talking very loudly at him a good many too many times during the past few hours, but that he has managed to fool them, many or few, by always acting as much like a Body as possible. His chief wish is to turn over on the other side and sleep for another seven hours or so, but one of those people is standing respectfully beside his bed and though Oliver blinks eyes at him reproachfully, he will not vanish back into his proper nonentity—he remains standing there—obsequious words come out of his mouth.
“Ten minutes to one, sir. Lunch is at one, sir.”
Oliver stares at the blue waistcoat gloomily. “What's that?”
“Ten minutes to one, sir. Lunch is at one, sir.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I'd better get up, I suppose. Ow-ooh!” as he stretches.
“Yes, sir. A bath, sir?” “Bath?”