Good Lord! She is talking in her sleep. They haven’t used that name for years. “Boogles. Are you awake?” “Yes, do you want anything?” “Oh, I’m going to be a bother. I’m so sorry. Do you mind? There’s a wretched mosquito inside my net—I can hear him singing. Would you catch him? I don’t want to move because of my heart.” “No, don’t move. Stay where you are.” He switches on the light, lifts the net. “Where is the little beggar? Have you spotted him?” “Yes, there, over by the corner. Oh, I do feel such a fiend to have dragged you out of bed. Do you mind dreadfully?” “No, of course not.” For a moment he hovers in his blue and white pyjamas. Then, “got him,” he said. “Oh, good. Was he a juicy one?” “Beastly.” He went over to the washstand and dipped his fingers in water. “Are you all right now? Shall I switch off the light?” “Yes, please. No. Boogles! Come back here a moment. Sit down by me. Give me your hand.” She turns his signet ring. “Why weren’t you asleep? Boogles, listen. Come closer. I sometimes wonder—do you mind awfully being out here with me?” He bends down. He kisses her. He tucks her in, he smoothes the pillow. “Rot!” he whispers. Mr. Reginald Peacock’s Day If there was one thing that he hated more than another it was the way she had of waking him in the morning. She did it on purpose, of course. It was her way of establishing her grievance for the day, and he was not going to let her know how successful it was. But really, really, to wake a sensitive person like that was positively dangerous! It took him hours to get over it—simply hours. She came into the room buttoned up in an overall, with a handkerchief over her head—thereby proving that she had been up herself and slaving since dawn—and called in a low, warning voice: “Reginald!” “Eh! What! What’s that? What’s the matter?” “It’s time to get up; it’s half-past eight.” And out she went, shutting the door quietly after her, to gloat over her triumph, he supposed.