It struck him as incongruous and
impossible that only fifteen hours had passed since then. If he
possessed a doubt of the reality of it all, the bed was there to help
convince him. It was a real bed, and he had not slept in a real bed for
a number of years. Wallie had made it ready for him. Its sheets were
snow-white. There was a counterpane with a fringe on it and pillows
puffed up with billowy invitation, as if they were on the point of
floating away. Had they risen before his eyes, Keith would have
regarded the phenomenon rather casually. After the swift piling up of
the amazing events of those fifteen hours, a floating pillow would have
seemed quite in the natural orbit of things. But they did not float.
They remained where they were, their white breasts bared to him, urging
upon him a common-sense perspective of the situation. He wasn't going
to run away. He couldn't sit up all night. Therefore why not come to
them and sleep?
There was something directly personal in the appeal of the pillows and
the bed. It was not general; it was for him. And Keith responded.
He made another note of the time, a half-hour after one, when he turned
in. He allotted himself four hours of sleep, for it was his intention
to be up with the sun.
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