"I have been thinking lately," said Inglewood in a low voice,
"that there's no time for waking up."

She did not reply, and he walked to the window and looked out on the garden.

"I don't smoke or drink, you know," he said irrelevantly,
"because I think they're drugs. And yet I fancy all hobbies,
like my camera and bicycle, are drugs too. Getting under a
black hood, getting into a dark room--getting into a hole anyhow.
Drugging myself with speed, and sunshine, and fatigue, and fresh air.
Pedalling the machine so fast that I turn into a machine myself.
That's the matter with all of us. We're too busy to wake up."

"Well," said the girl solidly, "what is there to wake up to?"

"There must be!" cried Inglewood, turning round in a singular
excitement--"there must be something to wake up to!
All we do is preparations--your cleanliness, and my healthiness,
and Warner's scientific appliances. We're always preparing
for something--something that never comes off. I ventilate
the house, and you sweep the house; but what is going to HAPPEN
in the house?"

She was looking at him quietly, but with very bright eyes,
and seemed to be searching for some form of words which she
could not find.

Before she could speak the door burst open, and the boisterous Rosamund Hunt,
in her flamboyant white hat, boa, and parasol, stood framed in the doorway.
She was in a breathing heat, and on her open face was an expression of