n his dressing-gown, took his candle, and went down the passage.

In a less softened mood, the first thing Mr. Bennett would have done on
crossing the threshold of the door facing the staircase would have been
to notice resentfully that Mr. Mortimer, with his usual astuteness, had
collared the best bedroom in the house. The soft carpet gave out no
sound as Mr. Bennett approached the wide and luxurious bed. The light of
the candle fell on the back of a semi-bald head. Mr. Mortimer was
sleeping with his face buried in the pillow. It cannot have been good
for him, but that was what he was doing. From the portion of the pillow
in which his face was buried strange gurgles proceeded, like the distant
rumble of an approaching train on the Underground.

"Mortimer," said Mr. Bennett.

The train stopped at a station to pick up passengers, and rumbled on
again.

"Henry!" said Mr. Bennett, and nudged his sleeping friend in the small
of the back.

"Leave it on the mat," mumbled Mr. Mortimer, stirring slightly and
uncovering one corner of his mouth.

Mr. Bennett began to forget his remorse in a sense of injury. He felt
like a man with a good story to tell who can get nobody to listen to
him. He nudged the other again, more vehemently this time. Mr. Mortimer
made a noise like a gramophone when the needle slips, moved restlessly
for a moment, then sat up, staring at the candle.

"Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!" said Mr. Mortimer, and sank back again. He
had begun to rumble before he touched the pillow.

"What do you mean, rabbits?" said Mr. Bennett sharply.

The not unreasonable query fell on deaf ears. Mr. Mortimer was already
entering a tunnel.

"Much too pink!" he murmured as the pillow engulfed him.

What steps Mr. Bennett would have taken at this juncture, one cannot
say. Probably he would have given the thing up in despair and retired,
for it is weary work forgiving a sleeping man. But, as he bent above his
slumbering friend, a drop of warm grease detached itself from the candle
and fell into Mr. Mortimer's exposed ear. The sleeper wakened.

"What? What? What?" he exclaimed, bounding up. "Who's that?"

"It's me--Rufus," said Mr. Bennett. "Henry, I'm dying!"

"Drying?"

"Dying!"

Mr. Mortimer yawned cavernously. The mists of sleep were engulfing him
again.

"Eight rabbits sitting on the lawn," he muttered. "But too pink! Much
too pink!"

And, as if considering he had borne his full share in the conversation
and