She held a cup of tea in her hand.
"Do you think you're going to sleep till Doomsday ?" she said.
He laughed at once.
"It ought only to be about five o'clock," he said.
"Well," she answered, "it's half-past seven, whether or not.

Here, I've brought you a cup of tea." He rubbed his face, pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, and roused himself.
"What's it so late for!" he grumbled.
He resented being wakened.

It amused her.

She saw his neck in the flannel sleeping-jacket, as white and round as a girl's.

He rubbed his hair crossly.
"It's no good your scratching your head," she said.