The lady smiled. "I'm afraid baby has broken your nap. A passing express frightened him."
"Not at all," murmured Mr. Jones incoherently, searching for his novel, the one solace left amid the ruin of his dreams.
"Pardon me," said the lady, "but if you are looking for your book you threw it out of the window just before you woke up."
Mr. Jones sank back resignedly. His glory had gone, his book had gone.
Once again he settled himself in his corner to sleep—perchance to dream.
"JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY."
"NOT 'FRIGHTFULLY,' MUMMY. A LOT OF THAT'S SHADING."