He went upstairs in the dark, annoyed with himself for having overstayed
his bedtime. Long experimentation had shown him that the minimum of
sleep he could get along with to advantage was six and one-half hours
nightly. This meant bed at 1.30 exactly, and he hardly varied it five
minutes in a year. To his marrow he was systematic; he was as definite
as an adding-machine, as practical as a cash register. But even now, on
this exceptional night, he did not go straight to bed. Something still
remained to be accomplished: an outrage upon his sacred Schedule.
In the first halcyon days at Mrs. Paynter's, before the board question
ever came up at all, the iron-clad Schedule of Hours under which he was
composing his great work had stood like this:
8.20 Breakfast
8.40 Evolutionary Sociology
1.30 Dinner
2 Evolutionary Sociology
7 Supper
7.20 to 1.30 Evolutionary Sociology
But the course of true love never yet ran smooth, and this schedule was
too ideal to stand. First the _Post_ had come along and nicked a clean
hour out of it, and now his Body had unexpectedly risen and claimed yet
another hour.
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