oodels and Milburd knock at my door at 2.30 a.m., after I've been asleep two hours, and wake me up to tell me that they had thought of a Pleasure of Poverty: it was, Milburd said,

To think that you can't be worse off, while you hope that others may.

I say .. “Oh ... don't bother—I mean—yes—capital ... go to ... bed,” and turning round, try to sleep again.

The Deputation thanks me and withdraws.

“What an idiotic thing to do,” I say to myself .... “What a foolish thing” .... getting more wakeful ... “What a cruel thing .... Hang it! it's positively selfish ... it's” ... turning for the fifth time, and my pillow becoming as hot as a blister ... “Confound Boodels ... and Milburd ... it's all his doing, I know” ... sitting up in bed.

It occurs to me that counting one hundred and forty backwards, and then getting out and drinking a glass of water, is a capital way of inducing sleep...

Odd, but in Milburd and Boodels coming to rouse me at this time, I find a solution to the other question that we had occupied part of our morning in discussing.

What circumstance justifies loss of patience?

Why, loss of sleep.