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?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, yes, bath. No--don't bother--I mean, I'll take it myself. You
needn't watch me.”
“Certainly _not_, sir. Thank you, sir. There have been several telephone
calls for you, sir.”
Oliver sighs--he is really awake now--it will be less trouble to get
up than to try and go back to sleep. Besides, if he tries, that
brass-buttoned automaton in front of him will probably start shaking him
gently in its well-trained English way.
“Telephone calls? Who telephone-called?”
“The name was Crowe, sir. The lady who was calling said she would call
again around lunch time. She said you were to be sure to wait until she
called, sir.”
“Oh, yes, certainly.” Politely, “And now I think I'll get up, if you
don't mind?”
“Oh, no, sir,” rather scandalizedly. “You are in need of nothing, sir?”
Oliver thinks of replying, “Oh, just bring me a little more sleep if you
have it in the house,” but then thinks better of it.
“No, thanks.”
“Very good, sir,” and the automaton pussyfoots away.
Oliver still half asleep manages to rise and find slippers and a wrapper
and then pads over to an empty bathroom where he disports himself like
a whale. To his surprise he discovers himself whistling--true, the
sunlight has an excellent shine to it this morning and the air and the
sky outside seem blue and crisp with first fall--but even so.
“Nancy,” he murmurs and frowns and finishes his bath rather gloomily--a
gloom which is in no wise diminished when he goes downstairs to find
everybody nearly through lunch and Ted and Elinor, as far away from
each other at the table as possible, quite sure that they are behaving
exactly as usual while the remnants of the house-party do their best to
seem tactfully unconcerned.
Oliver, while managing to get through a copious and excellent lunch in
spite of his sorrows, regards them with the morose pity of a dyspeptic
octogenarian for healthy children. It is all very well and beautiful
for them now, he supposes grimly, but sooner or later even such babes as
they will have to Face Life--Come Up Against Facts--
He is having a second piece of blueberry pie when he is summoned to the
telephone. Rather tiresome of Mother, really, he thinks as he goes out
of the dining-room--something about his laundry again most probably--or
when he is coming back.
“Hello, Oliver?” “Hello, dear. Anything important?”
Mrs. Crowe's voice has a tiny chuckle in it--a chuckle that only comes
when Mrs. Crowe is being very pleased indeed.
“Well, Oliver, that depends--”
“Well, Mother, _honestly_! I'm right in the middle of lunch--”
“Oh, I'll call up again, if you'd rather, Oliver dear.” But Mrs. Crowe
for private reasons doesn't seem to be at all ashamed of taking up so
much of her son's very valuable time.
“Only I _did_ think it would interest you--that you'd like to know as
soon as possible.”
Impatiently, “Yes. Well?”
“Well--a friend of yours is coming to see you on the three o'clock. A
_rather_ good friend. We thought you'd be back by then, you see, and
so--”
Oliver's heart jumps queerly for an instant.
“_Who_?”
But the imp of the perverse has taken complete charge of Mrs. Crowe.
“Oh--a friend. Not a childhood one--oh, no--but a--good--one, though you
haven't seen each other for--more than three weeks now, isn't it? You
should just be able to make it, I should think, if somebody brought you
over in a car, but of course, if you're so busy--” “_Mother_!”
Then Oliver jangles the little hook of the telephone frantically up and
down.
“Mother! Listen! Listen! Who is it? Is it--honestly?”
But Mrs. Crowe has hung up. Shall he get the connection again? But that
means waiting--and Mother said he would just be able to make it--and
Mother isn't at all the kind that would fool him over a thing like this
no matter how much she wanted to tease. Oliver bounds back toward the
dining-room and nearly runs into Elinor Piper. He grabs her by the
shoulders.
“Listen, El!” he says feverishly. “Oh, I'll congratulate you properly
and all that some time but this is utterly everything--I've got to
go home right away--this minute--toot sweet--and no, by gum, I won't
apologize _this_ time for asking you to get somebody to take me over in
a car!”