When the door closed Monsignor Masterman looked round him slowlyand carefully. He had an idea that the mist must break sooner orlater and that all would become familiar once again. It wasperfectly plain, by now, to his mind, what had happened to him;and the fact that there were certain things which he recognized,such as the Cathedral, and Hyde Park, and a friar's habit, andArchbishop's House--all this helped him to keep his head. If heremembered so much, there seemed no intrinsic reason why heshould not remember more.
But his inspection was disappointing. Not only was there not onearticle in the room which he knew, but he did not even understandthe use of some of the things which he saw. There was a row ofwhat looked like small black boxes fastened to the right-handwall, about the height of a man's head; and there was some kindof a machine, all wheels and handles, in the corner by the nearerwindow, which was completely mysterious to him.
He glanced through into the bedroom, and this was not muchbetter. Certainly there was a bed; there was no mistake aboutthat; and there seemed to be wardrobes sunk to the level of thewalls on all sides; but although in this room he thought herecognized the use of everything which he saw, there was nosingle thing that wore a familiar aspect.
He came back to his writing-table and sat down before it indespair. But that did not reassure him. He took out one or two ofthe books that stood there in a row--directories andaddress-books they appeared chiefly to be--and found his namewritten in each, with here and there a note or a correction, allin his own handwriting. He took up the half-written letter againand glanced through it once more, but it brought no relief. Hecould not even conjecture how the interrupted sentence on thethird page ought to end.
Again and again he tried to tear up from his inner consciousnesssomething which he could remember, closing his eyes and sinkinghis head upon his hands, but nothing except fragments andglimpses of vision rose before him. It was now a face or a sceneto which he could give no name; now a sentence or a thought thatowned no context. There was no frame at all--no unified scheme inwhich these fragments found cohesion. It was like regarding thepieces of a shattered jar whose shape even could not beconjectured. . . .
Then a sudden thought struck him; he sprang up quickly and raninto his bedroom. A tall mirror, he remembered, hung between thewindows. He ran straight up to this and stood staring at his ownreflection. It was himself that he saw there--there was no doubtof that--every line and feature of that keen, pale,professorial-looking face was familiar, though it seemed to himthat his hair was a little greyer than it ought to be.