Let him blame one of the footmen, Sir Terence's orderly, or the cat.

It mattered nothing to Lady O'Moy.
Having devoured the food and consumed the wine, Richard's exhaustion assumed the form of a lethargic torpor.

To sleep was now his overmastering desire.

She fetched him rugs and pillows, and he made himself a couch upon the floor.

She had demurred, of course, when he himself had suggested this.