He began to call out, his breath came in staggering gasps, his feet faltered.
"O, mercy, mercy--have mercy." He sank trembling to his knees.
"Dune, Dune, wake up! What's the matter?
You've been making the most awful shindy.

Dune, Dune!" Slowly he came to himself.

As his eyes caught the old familiar objects, the little diamond-paned window, the books, the smiling tenderness of "Aegidius," the last evening blaze lighting the room with golden splendour, he pulled himself together.
He had been sitting, he remembered now, in the armchair by the fire.
Craven had come to tea.

They had had their meal, had talked pleasantly enough, and then Olva had felt this overpowering desire for sleep come down upon him.

He knew the sensation of it well enough by now, for his nights had often been crowded with waking hours, and this drowsiness would attack him at any time--in hall, in chapel, in lecture.