It included a four-post bed of generous proportions, hangings, curtains and covers of chintz, over which faded purple and crimson roses were flung broadcast on a honey-yellow ground.

The colourings were discreetly cheerful, the atmosphere not unpleasantly warm, the quiet, save for the creaking of a board as he crossed the floor, unbroken.
Outwardly all invited to peaceful slumber.

And Tom felt more than ready to profit by that invitation this last night on shore, last night in England.

His attention had been upon the stretch for a good many hours now, since that--after all rather upsetting--good-bye to home and family at Canton Magna, following an early and somewhat peripatetic breakfast.
Notwithstanding his excellent health and youthful energy, mind and body alike were somewhat spent.

He made short work of preparation, slipped in between the fine cool linen sheets, and laid his brown head upon the soft billowing pillows, impatient neither to think nor feel any more but simply to sleep.
For some two hours or so he did sleep, though not without phantasmagoria queerly disturbing.