the hour of two
If there was such a thing as Fate , what meaning could there be in their having met ? Or was their meeting as purposeless as that of which some poet had once written -- two pieces of plank-wood touching in mid-ocean and drifting eternally ? It seemed that the low voices of the others had been going on for more than an hour when the sense of absolute stillness told Selwyn that he must have fallen asleep for an interval . He listened for their voices , but nothing could be heard except the sleet driven against the windows , and a far-away clock striking the hour of two . Wondering if his visitors were comfortable , he rose from his bed , and creeping softly to the living-room door , opened it enough to look in . Smyth 's heavy breathing , not made any lighter by his having his head completely covered by bed-clothes , indicated that the futurist was in the realm of Morpheus . Durwent was curled up cosily by the fire , the blankets over him rising and subsiding slightly , conforming to his deep , tranquil breaths .