“What’s about a ham?” “What Henry has been reading.” She closed the red notebook lying on her knees and slipped a rubber band round it. “I’m going to bed,” she announced, and got up. “So am I,” said Anne, yawning. But she lacked the energy to rise from her arm-chair. The night was hot and oppressive. Round the open windows the curtains hung unmoving. Ivor, fanning himself with the portrait of an Astral Being, looked out into the darkness and drew a breath. “The air’s like wool,” he declared. “It will get cooler after midnight,” said Henry Wimbush, and cautiously added, “perhaps.” “I shan’t sleep, I know.” Priscilla turned her head in his direction; the monumental coiffure nodded exorbitantly at her slightest movement. “You must make an effort,” she said. “When I can’t sleep, I concentrate my will: I say, ‘I will sleep, I am asleep!’ And pop! off I go. That’s the power of thought.” “But does it work on stuffy nights?” Ivor inquired. “I simply cannot sleep on a stuffy night.” “Nor can I,” said Mary, “except out of doors.” “Out of doors! What a wonderful idea!” In the end they decided to sleep on the towers--Mary on the western tower, Ivor on the eastern. There was a flat expanse of leads on each of the towers, and you could get a mattress through the trap doors that opened on to them. Under the stars, under the gibbous moon, assuredly they would sleep. The mattresses were hauled up, sheets and blankets were spread, and an hour later the two insomniasts, each on his separate tower, were crying their good-nights across the dividing gulf.