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.
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