Half-past five in the morning and Oliver undressing wearily by the light
of a pale pink dawn.
Now and then he looks at his bed with a gloating expression that almost
reaches the proportions of a lust--he is so tired he can hardly get off
his clothes. The affairs of the last twenty-four hours mix in his mind
like a jumble of colored postcards, all loose and disconnected and
brightly unreal. Ted--Elinor--Mrs. Severance--Mr. Piper--the dance he
has just left--sleep--oh--sleep!
Where is Ted? Somewhere with Elinor of course--it doesn't matter--both
were looking suspiciously starry when he last saw them across the
room--engagements--marriages--sleep--Mr. Piper's revolver--sleep. How
will he return Mr. Piper's revolver? Can't do it tactfully--can't leave
it around to be lost, the servants are too efficient--send it to Ted and
Elinor as a wedding present--no, that's not tactful either--what silly
thoughts--might have been dead by this time--rather better, being
alive--and in bed--and asleep--and asleep. Oh, _bed!_ and he falls into
it as if he were diving into butter and though he murmurs “Nancy” once
to himself before his head sinks into pillows, in two seconds he is
drugged with such utter slumber that it is only the blind stupefied face
of a man under ether that he is able to lift from his haven when
Ted comes in half an hour later and announces, in the voice of one
proclaiming a new revelation, that Elinor is the finest person that ever
lived and that everything is most wholly and completely all right.