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!”