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When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept for a long time, but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told him that it was only twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while;
then the usual deep-lunged singing struck up from the yard below:
‘It was only an ‘opeless fancy,
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an’ a word an’ the dreams they stirred
They ‘ave stolen my ‘eart awye!’
The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard it all over the place. It had outlived the Hate Song. Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed.

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