“Ah, the creatures begin to stir. . . .” He watched them raise themselves, look about them, and settle down again. “What I abhor most of all,” he concluded, “is the female breast. Imagine being Venning and having to get into bed with Susan! But the really repulsive thing is that they feel nothing at all—about what I do when I have a hot bath. They’re gross, they’re absurd, they’re utterly intolerable!”
So saying, and drawing no reply from Hewet, he proceeded to think about himself, about science, about Cambridge, about the Bar, about Helen and what she thought of him, until, being very tired, he was nodding off to sleep.
Suddenly Hewet woke him up.
“How d’you know what you feel, Hirst?”
“Are you in love?” asked Hirst. He put in his eyeglass.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Hewet.
“Well, I’ll sit down and think about it,” said Hirst. “One really ought to. If these people would only think about things, the world would be a far better place for us all to live in. Are you trying to think?”
That was exactly what Hewet had been doing for the last half-hour, but he did not find Hirst sympathetic at the moment.
“I shall go for a walk,” he said.
“Remember we weren’t in bed last night,” said Hirst with a prodigious yawn.