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  PART IV

  THE DOUBLE CROSS

  I

  A conspicuous feature about my small house in Surrey is its lake--eightyyards by forty of clear dark water among the oak and willows, spring-fedand with trout in it. This lake lies immediately in front of the house,where other houses have their lawns. It needs a good deal of attention,for springtime sheddings that are charming on grass are messy on water,and nothing but wind can sweep the glossy surface. But its infinitevariety of mood lights up the whole place like a smiling eye, and I amvery attached to it.

  Not more than a quarter of an hour's bicycle-ride away is a preparatoryschool for boys up to the age of fourteen.

  Need I say that I have had to put up a diving-platform at one end of thelake?

  There are, of course, certain rules: bicycles to be left at thepotting-shed, diving from the punt not allowed, not more than fourbathers at one time, etc., etc. But within these limits the pond is asmuch theirs as mine, and seldom a summer afternoon passes without abathing-party.

  I had done Julia's bidding and had come back home again. It had been ona Wednesday morning that I had left her waiting for her books in thereading-room of the British Museum. It was now Friday, and I had notheard a word either of her or Derry.

  I had tried not to think of them. Finding that impossible, I hadwandered restlessly up and down, no good to myself or to anybody else.On Thursday, and again on Friday, I had almost returned to London. Icould not shake off that picture of her, sitting alone in that drearyrotunda of accumulated human knowledge. Had she started thatcrack-brained index, he his terrifying book? Had she gone to him? Whathad she said? What had he replied? I could neither guess nor forgetabout it. As if he had infected me with something of his own calamity,my mind too was in two places at the same time--among the Surrey oaksand sweet-chestnut, and in that loft where he had lived over the SouthKensington mews.

  My study is an upper room at the front of the house, with French windowsthat open on to a wide verandah. I often drag out a table and workoutside. But work that morning was impossible. I was too unsettled evento answer letters. So I walked out on to the verandah and leaned on theramblered rail. The oaks across the lake were turning from gold togreen, and the two big willows by the diving-stage were a ruffle ofsilver-grey. Under the clear surface the trout were basking shadows. Iwished the afternoon were here. It would at least bring the boys tobathe.

  Suddenly I heard my housekeeper's step on the verandah behind me. Shealways walks straight through the study if she gets no answer to herknock.

  "Miss Oliphant," she announced.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  "Miss Oliphant! Where?"

  "In the drawing-room, sir."

  In five seconds I was through the study and half-way downstairs. Thedrawing-room is a cool, low-ceilinged apartment at the farther end ofthe house. It has windows on two of its sides, those to the north greenwith brushing leaves and a ferny bank, the others glazed doors that thatmorning stood wide open. As I entered I heard mingled laughter.

  They both stood there.

  They were silhouetted against the sunny opening, laughing like a coupleof children. Perhaps the joke was that Julia only had been announced. Istood watching them for a moment; then I advanced.

  "Good morning," I said.

  Julia gave a swift turn. The next moment she had pushed Derry forward.

  "You explain--I wash my hands of it," she laughed.

  She wore thick shoes and a walking-costume, and on her head was a littlefelt hat with a pheasant's feather. He had on an old tweed jacket andgrey flannel bags. He held out his hand.

  "Hope we're not dragging you from your work, George," he laughed. "Doyou good anyway. I felt like a day off, so I dug out Julia. 'Down tools,Julia,' I said; 'no work to-day. Where shall we go? Shall we give GeorgeCoverham a surprise?' So here we are, to lunch, please. By Jove, there'sa kingfisher!"

  He sprang out on to the terrace to see where the electric-blue flash hadwhistled off to.

  Swiftly I glanced at Julia. In her eyes was the old deep shining. ButDerry called over his shoulder:

  "That was a young one, wasn't it? Is there a nest? How many hatched out?Do they go for the fish?"

  He seemed splendidly fit, perfectly happy. He seemed so happy thatsuddenly I wondered what I had been making myself so miserable about. Aweight seemed to lift all at once from my mind. Too much London hadoppressed me, I supposed. Cambridge Circus is not the place for acountry-living man to stay too long in. It bred too many fancies. Muchbetter for the Circus-dweller to come into the country.

  "It went over by that bank," Derry was saying, still peering after thekingfisher; and I stepped out.

  "Yes. The nest's right in the bank. Six of them hatched. You'll seeanother in a minute."

  But at that moment his eyes fell on the punt. Quickly he turned toJulia.

  "Years since I've had a punt-pole in my hand!" he exclaimed. "Is it inworking order, George? Come along----"

  "You go, Julia," I said; and I returned into the house to see aboutlunch.

  What had happened? Had he really brought her out for the day on his ownaccount, as formerly he had used to do? Or was she allowing him tothink that he had? Was he repeating himself even textually, in thosewords "Down tools, Julia, no work to-day"? I must know. It was essentialthat I should know. Yet already something in his manner told me that Ishould not learn it from him. He was here not to talk about himself, butto enjoy, keenly and vividly, every moment of his day. Whatever my ownmegrims had been, he showed none. Not he, but Julia, would have toexplain matters.

  Suddenly I took a resolution. I pushed at a baize door.

  "Mrs Moxon!" I called.

  My housekeeper appeared.

  "Would it be upsetting your arrangements if I asked my visitors to stayfor the week-end?" I asked.

  She considered a moment; then she thought it could be managed. But sheseemed puzzled.

  "It _is_ Mr Rose, isn't it?" she said.

  Derry, I may say, had been to my house twice or thrice before.

  "Of course."

  "I thought it was, sir, but they told me only to say Miss Oliphant."

  "Oh, that was their little surprise for me," I replied. "Very well, MrsMoxon. Lunch, and I'll ask them to stay for the week-end. My sister lefta few things, didn't she?"

  "That'll be all right, sir. I'll see to Miss Oliphant."

  I came out of the house again and sought the lake. They were out in themiddle of it, lying down in the punt together with their heads over theside. They were watching the trout. I was on the point of hailing themwhen I refrained. Something dramatic in their juxtaposition pulled me upshort.

  Their heads were together, their laughter came across the water. She_was_ having her summer again. But what would it cost her? Herunchanging adoration--and his affectionate indifference! He had nevercared, he never would care. To-morrow he would have forgotten all aboutit. But she would have still another day's memories to add to thoseothers when he had jumped five-barred gates with his pipe in his mouthand his stick in his hand--memories of my punt and pond and the greeningoaks and the silvery willows.... Yet she was laughing as carelessly ashe. They were playing a game. A willow-leaf had floated like a fairyshallop towards them, and he was blowing it her way, she blowing it backagain.

  Then a dragonfly caught their attention, and they forgot thewillow-leaf, as instantly as children forget.

  * * * * *

  At lunch I sat with my back to the open windows, they where they couldlook out. Apparently he had completely forgotten that night, only threedays ago, when he had told me that I was the only one of his oldacquaintances to whom he dared reveal himself. He called her Julia, shehim Derry, and to both of them I was George. We laughed, joked, saidanything that came into our heads; but beneath it all I was in anextreme of curiosity. _How_ had they come together? _What_ had happenedthat there was now a second person in the world to whom he couldpronounce his name?


  Half-way through lunch I made my proposal that they should remain for acouple of days. His brow suddenly clouded. I watched him carefully, andI knew that Julia was watching him as carefully as I.

  "Awfully good of you, George," he said in a suddenly altered voice, "butI really don't think I can spare the time. I only downed tools for oneday, you know. I really must get back."

  "But to-morrow's Saturday. I promise to let you go on Sunday evening ifyou really must."

  "I'm so fearfully busy, you see," he said uneasily.

  Under the table I felt Julia's foot touch mine. She spoke.

  "Fancy Derry talking like a minor novelist about being busy!" shelaughed. "Why, you always used to say that if it was as hard work as allthat something was wrong and ought to be seen to!"

  His brow instantly cleared again. "That's so," he said. "Did I say that?I'd forgotten. Busyness is all bunk, of course; made for duffers. Athing either does itself or it doesn't.... Right, George, I'll stop ifJulia will. I hope you won't mind if I go to bed rather early though. Ireally have been hard at it, and I need a lot of sleep."

  "This air'll make you sleep," I assured him. I did not add that if hewished to go to bed early lest he should sink into abysmal sleep in themiddle of a sentence he should have his wish. Razors and a spirit-lampwere going to be put into his room. A little teapot and caddy would alsobe placed there. I intended to tell Mrs Moxon that he was faddy abouthis early-morning tea. He might then use his hot water for any purposehe wished.

  We took coffee outside, and then went for a stroll round my few acres.In the kitchen-garden he had a new idea. Over a hedge at one end of it,well out of the way, was a rather unsightly dump of old householdrubbish--tins, burst buckets, old zinc baths, broken utensils of everykind. A few spadefuls of earth are thrown over these from time to time,and a handful of nasturtium-seeds once in a while helps to mitigate theeyesore.

  "You want an incinerator, George," he announced. "Here's all your stuffready. Hammer this old junk out flat, get the blacksmith to cut a fewrods, a cartload of stones and a few barrowloads of clay, and there youare. Lots of fine ash for your beds too, though I shouldn't think thissoil needed much. Got a pencil? I'll show you----"

  He made rough sketches of the incinerator on the back of an envelope.

  We strolled back to the pond and the punt again, and he threw off hiscoat, turned up his sleeves, and poled us up and down. He glowed withvitality and power. Both for strength and delicacy of touch he didwhatever he liked with the punt. One beautifully-finished little feat heperformed. A blossom of water-starwort floated on the pond some fifteenyards away. Julia's hand was trailing lazily in the water.

  "Keep your hand just as it is," he ordered her.

  She had only to close her fingers on the blossom. With one perfectstroke, one complicated thrust of the pole, that included I knew notwhat components of opposite forces reconciled to one end, the flowersped swiftly to her hand and rested there. There was no jar, only athrilling as of a sound-board as the punt fetched up still. He laughedwith pleasure at his skill.

  Then at that moment I heard the sound of boys' voices. The bathing-partyhad arrived. I turned to Julia.

  "They come every afternoon. Would you like to go up to the house, orwill you stay here in the punt under the trees?"

  "Oh, in the punt, please," she said; and Derry turned quickly.

  "Bathing? Did you say boys were going to bathe? I say, that's rather anidea! Got a spare costume, George?"

  Across the lake a stripling figure stood on the diving-stage with atowel about his shoulders. It was Du Pre Major. He dropped the towel,stood poised, and then came the sound of a plunge. Derry's eyes shone.In a moment he had put the punt in under the trees.

  "That's done it," he laughed. "Can I ask your housekeeper for a towel?"

  "You know my room. You'll find everything you want there."

  "Right. I've nearly forgotten how to swim----"

  He stepped from the punt and ran lightly round the pond.

  Julia's wet fingers still held the flower. Her head hung a little down,so that the light from the water was thrown softly up on to her face.Her eyes, but her eyes only, moved as the sound of another plunge washeard; but it was only the other Du Pre and Southby. I did not speak.There would be time enough for talking after Derry had gone tobed--early.

  Then over by the house a gleam of white appeared. It was Derry with arobe of towelling over his shoulders. He did not take the path to thediving-board; instead, he dropped the towel on a grass border, lookedaloft for a moment, and then took a straight run at one of the willows.It was a "cricket-bat" willow, and it overhung the diving-board at anangle out of the vertical. How he managed the leap I do not know, but ina moment he was up the tree like a squirrel, poised in the fork,laughing down at the surprised boys on the stage below.

  "Stand clear," he called.

  His path through the air was a swallow's. There was a soft plunge, ahissing effervescence as of black soda-water, and he shot to the surfaceagain like a javelin, a dozen yards away.

  "Oh, ripping plunge, sir!" one of the boys called rapturously. "Jimmy!Did you see it? Did you see that?"

  "Come in--let's make a dog-fight of it!" Derry cried.

  And one after another they tumbled in and splashed towards him.

  I have been told that that Friday's four are still the envied of thewhole school. He was very wonderful with them. The dog-fight over he setto work to coach them. They had never seen the stroke that consists ofturning the left leg from the knee downwards into a screw-propeller, sothat the swimmer travels forward, not in a series of impulses, but at auniform rate of progress. He showed them in the water, and then hoistedhimself to the diving-platform and showed them there. The stage became acomical waggling of nubile white legs.

  "No, no," his voice came to us, "from the knee--think of a screw--andabout a six-inch stroke with your left hand--it's worth learning--makesswimming as easy as walking----"

  "Show us a racing-stroke, sir----"

  "Shut up, Jimmy. Is this right? It does catch your knee, though----"

  "Do that dive again, sir----"

  Then, when Derry judged they had had enough of it, he ordered them out.He himself did a final dash of the whole eighty yards and back again,while the water boiled behind him. Then he sought his wrap anddisappeared into the house.

  "He's 'some' swimmer, isn't he?" said Julia softly. She had neitherspoken nor moved.

  He was.

  But even I could see that he knew nothing of women.

  The bit of water-starwort was still in her hand. Suddenly with a littlelaugh she tossed it over the side.

  "Oughtn't he to have some tea?" she said....

  I do not wish to labour the details of that afternoon. I may say thatalready I had a very distinct and curious impression of them, namely,that they _were_ details, isolated and without continuity; but I willcome to that presently. We sat rather a long time over tea, and Derrytalked. The only subject he seemed to avoid was that of his work.Otherwise he was alert, keen, dead "on the spot." On athletics he wasextraordinarily illuminating. Granted that as an engine his body waspretty near perfection; it was on the "fundamental brainwork" of thesubject that he laid the greatest stress. The modesty of thedemonstrations which he made on the verandah before our eyes wasaltogether charming; he was as simple and earnest with us as he had beenwith the boys. For such-and-such a performance (he showed) your balance_must_ be thus and thus; for swiftness, a certain speed of movement_must_ be the perfectly-synchronised sum-total of half a dozen differentspeeds. I am no very remarkable athlete myself; I have always supposedthat I lacked some special gift; but Derry spoke almost as if, by themere taking of thought, he could add a cubit to his leap or plunge. Hetook his sport and his writing in very much the same way. You "justhelped nature all you could."

  Then he was back on the subject of the incinerator again.

  Shortly after that it was an oak that ought to be lightened on one sideunless I wanted to have a hole
torn in the bank of my pond.

  Then, dinner over, he began to fidget. This was at a little after eighto'clock. At twenty past he rose abruptly.

  "It's that bathe I suppose," he yawned. "If you don't mind I think I'llturn in. You said I might, you know----"

  "I'll show you up," I said.

  "Don't trouble," he replied, Julia's hand in his.

  But I wanted to make sure that the tea-caddy was where I had told MrsMoxon to put it.

  II

  On the night when he had half scared me out of my wits with thathorrible demonstration with the electric torch on the edge of the bambootable, he had been careful to explain that he was putting the questionin its most elementary form. There were (he had said) other factors, andmore important ones. One of these had already occurred to me. Stated assimply as possible, it was this:

  As he had held the torch that night, with that notch that "had got to bethirty-three" in the middle of the illuminated edge, about six inches oneither side of the notch had come within the lamp's beam. "Keep your eyeon that edge and never mind the other dimensions," he had said, and hehad proceeded to manipulate the lamp.

  _But how had he determined the distance at which the lamp must be heldfrom the table's edge?_

  You see the enormous importance of this. The lighted portion of the edgewas the extent of his memory, faculty or whatever one may call it. Butwhat about that memory's _quality_ as distinct from its extent? Suppose,instead of holding the torch a foot away, he had held it three inchesaway only? The nearer the shorter--but the brighter; the farther awaythe longer--but the dimmer. Our childish recollections are intense, butof small things; as we grow older we remember more, but more vaguely....I find that I shall have to make use of the parallel columns again.Indeed I begin to suspect that I shall have to do so throughout. Wasthis then the position?

  BY APPROACHING THE LAMP BY WITHDRAWING THE LAMP

  He might re-live a given age The intensity would diminish again with great intensity. but the scope of memory would enlarge.

  Emotion or passion might become He might become comparative, predominant characteristics, critical, philosophic, at the expense of but at the cost of intensity intellectual comparisons. of emotional experience.

  He certainly would not succeed He might be in danger of in any task that demanded including so much that he width of outlook first of all. would become diffuse and pointless.

  He might concentrate so brilliantly The speculative man might get as to perform a momentary and the upper hand of the practical sensational feat--say to one and he would fail in a knockout Carpentier. supreme momentary effort--in other words, Carpentier would knock him out.

  A summer's day in the country It would be merely a matter might be almost unbearably of fresh air and exercise, to beautiful to him. be set off against the working hours lost and the cost of two railway tickets.

  I am anxious not to go beyond my brief. I knew that for the purpose ofhis book he was attempting to manipulate himself, but what his successhad so far been I did not know. Nevertheless all the possibilities hadto be considered, and the more I thought of this one the more itimpressed me. For practical purposes, these differences ofmemory-intensity might turn out to be the pivot on which all elseturned.

  For suppose that he had no choice but to go back and reopen the closedbook of his life, and that nothing that Julia or I could do would stophim. Whether in that case was the better: to live as it were day by dayand hour and hour, with joy and grief experienced at their highestpitch, or to continue to possess to the full this unique and doubleknowledge, of a past that had been a future and of a future that wasonce more a past?

  To put it in another form, since he must do this Widdershins Walk, wasit better for him to know he was doing it, or to do it knowing as littleas possible about it?

  Or, in its simplest form of all, would he be happier with or without amemory of any kind?

  * * * * *

  I said good night to him at the door of his room and closed it behindme. I had not taken more than a couple of steps when I heard him softlylock it. I went down to Julia in the drawing-room.

  Even on a warm summer's evening, when the windows stand wide open, Ilike a wood fire. Outside the heavens were a beauteous pink glow, withone amber star. The trout were rising for their evening meal, and asedge-warbler sang short sweet phrases. From time to time a moorhenscuttered along the surface of the pond, and the smell ofnight-flowering tobacco floated into the quiet room. But Julia had nowish to go out. Into a pair of my sister's slippers she had thrust herworsted-clad feet, and she was toasting her toes and smiling into thefire.

  "Is that window too much for you?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Then put this shawl over your shoulders. You'll have hot milk to go tobed with."

  "Thank you, George."

  "And now," I said, drawing up my chair opposite to her, "tell me what'shappened since Wednesday."

  She mused. "Happened to him?"

  "I want to know _all_ that you did. Did you go to him?"

  "No. He turned up at the Boltons this morning and dragged me out,exactly as he said."

  "But----"

  "Oh, I'd sent him a note."

  "Ah! I wondered.... What did you say?"

  "It was only a couple of lines. I forget what the exact words were. Imerely said that I shouldn't be in the least afraid of anything, andthat anyway I hadn't a dog to set at him. Just that. Nothing else. Iwrote it in the Museum after you'd gone."

  "And that fetched him round?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, what did he say?"

  She hesitated. "That's just it, George. He hasn't even referred to it."

  "What, not in any way?"

  "Not in any way."

  "He just came into the Boltons as if nothing had happened, and he'stalked all day as if nothing had happened?"

  "That's exactly it."

  "He's not mentioned his book?"

  "Only what you heard at lunch."

  "He is writing it?"

  "One would gather so. You know as much about it as I do."

  I gazed into the fire. A louder splash came from the pond--one of thethree-pound rainbows. Julia resumed of her own accord.

  "You see, when you left me in the Museum I really didn't know what todo. After what you'd told me I didn't want to risk upsetting him bysimply walking in to his place unannounced. So I wrote that note, andhe'd get it last night. And he was round early this morning. But hehasn't even mentioned the note. I suppose he got it, but things aren'tin the least like what you told me. You told me he was passionatelygrateful at finding you. Well, that doesn't at all describe his mannerto me. He's jolly, keen, full of enjoyment and zest at everything thatcomes along--and that's all. He _must_ have understood my note; that'swhy I put in that bit about the dog; if he didn't understand he'd haveto ask what _that_ meant. But not one single word. What do you supposehas happened?"

  A little disingenuously I asked her what she meant by "happened."

  "To him of course. I've told you all _I_ did. It must have been ratherheartrending between you two; so why this perfect composure now thatthere are three of us?"

  I didn't know. I was a little afraid to guess. But again I pondered thatdistance of the torch from the table's edge.... Julia was still gazinginto the fire, her long hands between her knees, so that herwalking-skirt shaped them. Then suddenly she looked from the fire to me.

  "How many things has he talked about to-day, since he's been here?" sheasked abruptly.

  I moved uneasily. "Oh--how many things does one talk about in a
day?Hundreds," I replied.

  "But--at such a _pitch_!" She threw the word at me with almostaccusatory energy. "Top-note all the time--birds' nests, punts,athletics, incinerators, those boys bathing----"

  Less and less at my ease, I could only urge that a holiday was aholiday, and that Derry might as well have stayed at home as bring hiscares with him.

  "You think it's just that?" she demanded, looking me full in the face.

  "I should say so."

  "Hm!"

  But in spite of that rather critical "Hm!" she seemed reassured.Suddenly she gave a soft chuckle.

  "He was rather wonderful with those boys," she said.

  "They're nice boys."

  "What a games-master he'd make!" Then, with a sly and guilty look in hereyes, "What shall we do to-morrow, George? Oh, it's ripping luck, beinghere unexpectedly like this!"

  "What would you like to do? There's the car if you want to go anywhere!"

  "N--o," she said reflectively, as if running over in her mind a dozendelectable plans. "I think just potter about here. Rushing about incars ... no, it's perfectly adorable here. I don't want to set foot outof your grounds. George, you are a duck!" She hugged herself.

  Whether he was living from moment to moment or not, there was no doubtabout her. She basked shamelessly. I am not making her out to beanything she was not. She was a ready, practical creature, by no meansabove what is called feminine littleness, not very young, but with herown beauty. It was, too, her beauty's hour. Sitting there between thefirelight and the fairness of the evening outside, long-throated,cool-browed, with the glow of the wood-flames richly in her eyes, herbody seemed an ivory lamp that guarded its light with sacred and jealouscare. And that flame was to all intents and purposes stolen. She nowintended, calculated, planned, contrived. Up to that moment I hadsupposed her to be waiting (as it were) in that remembered Sussexvillage, waiting at the centre of whatever mystery had happened to him,waiting for him to come back to her. But now I knew that she was doingnothing so passive. She was _not_ waiting. She was prepared to bringevents about. To the little that he had spared her on his forwardjourney she was prepared to help herself immeasurably as he returned.Like a footpad she watched his drawing-near. Sitting there by my fire,with that day's memories still glowing about her, she was contrivingfurther ones for the morrow....

  And suddenly the whole scope of her daring flashed upon me. Attwenty-eight she had failed to get him. Now, at forty, she would notscruple to make use of whatever arts she had since acquired.

  _She would, if she could, marry Derwent Rose._

  I cannot tell you my stupefaction at my own discovery. It was wellnighwith awe that I looked at her. For in that case her adventure was hardlyless tremendous than his own. That is what I meant when I said that hebegan to constrain us and to draw us into the wheel of his own destiny.To marry a man of diminishing age! To marry a man who had lately beenforty-five, was now at some unknown point in the neighbourhood of thethirties, and would presently miraculously re-attain adolescence! Whatunheard-of marriage was this?

  As if she enumerated something to herself, one slender finger-tip was onanother. "First I shall go with him to the blacksmith's about thoserods," she said softly.

  I avoided her gaze. "I don't know," I said, "that I want an incineratorbuilt."

  "But Derry wants to build it," she answered, as if that settled thequestion.

  "He may have forgotten all about it to-morrow."

  Swiftly she turned on me. "What do you mean by that?"

  "The plain meaning of the words--he may have forgotten."

  "Do you mean something about his memory?"

  "Which memory? He's two of them--so far."

  "Tch!... You just this moment said that he was deliberately puttingthings away from him because this was a holiday. Did you say that justto keep me quiet? Don't you believe it yourself?"

  "I neither believe nor disbelieve. I simply don't know."

  "Oh, you're tiresome!... In plain English, then: are you suggesting thatwhen he came to me this morning, the only reason he didn't mention mynote was that he had forgotten all about it in the night?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. It all happened in the night. That was why hewent to bed early. That was why I had given him a spirit-kettle fortea--or shaving. Something might have happened during the night of whichshe spoke. Something might be happening in my house at that very moment.

  "_Do_ you mean his memory's cracking up?" she demanded.

  "I think we could find out."

  "How?"

  "By getting him to talk about his book. To write that book he must drawon both his memories, experiences, or whatever you like to call it.That's his whole equipment for it--two conscious experiences, withhimself balanced in the middle making the most of both. We might findout that way."

  "Oh, there's a shorter way than that," she said.

  "What?"

  "To ask him."

  I shrugged my shoulders again. "Yes...."

  And then I took her entirely off her guard. Outside the pink had turnedto peach, and the amber star had become a diamond. Suddenly, as they do,the trout had ceased to rise, and a single short squawk came from themoorhens' nest. I rose and stood before her.

  "Julia," I said without warning, "_would_ you marry him?"

  She might not have heard. I thought she was never going to reply. Shedrew the shawl a little more closely about her shoulders, and I crossedthe room and closed the windows. Then I returned to my place in front ofher.

  At last she spoke.

  "I suppose you may ask that," she said. "The answer is--Yes."

  "You've considered it?"

  "Yes."

  "Everything it would mean?"

  "Yes."

  "And you think you've--the right?"

  She stared at me. "The right?"

  "Yes, the right. Look at it this way. There's no doubt at all about onething; he isn't the same man to-day, or at any rate he isn't in the samemood, that he was two days ago. He may be just deliberately putting hiswork aside for a day, or--he may be the other thing. He may be going onwith his book on Monday morning--or he may be quite past it already. Itmakes a good deal of difference to you which of these two men he is."

  "It makes no difference."

  "Oh yes it does. In the one case you'd be simply his secretary, andthings would be more or less as they were before. But for the other hewouldn't want a secretary. That mad book would be all over and donewith. You saw him as he was to-day: one quick brilliant impression afteranother. That man might write a few vivid short stories, but never thatappalling book.... Look here, Julia, I didn't want to tell you, becausethe whole idea gives me a shudder; but this is the way he explained ithimself."

  And without any more ado I told her of his demonstration with theelectric torch and of my own additions thereto.

  She was not afraid of much, that woman. I had almost written that shetook it perfectly calmly, but that was just what she did not do. But itwas no fear of immensity and the blackness of Infinity that she showed.Rather she seemed to see an opportunity to be snatched at. That facethat I have likened to the ivory of a lamp betrayed the soft radiancethat she tried to, but could not hide.

  "Yes, that gives it," she breathed.

  "So you see what I mean by 'having the right.' You'd be there, thenearest, the brightest, vivider than everything else.... _Have_ you theright?"

  She laughed softly. "You mean I'm a baby-snatcher?" she said.

  I did not reply.

  For that was about the size of it. Did he remain in that mood, there shewould be in the punt with him, or holding iron rods for him as he setout the plan of the incinerator, or hunting with him for thekingfishers' nest, or watching him as he bathed with to-morrow's batchof boys. He would blow little boats of willow-leaves to her, bringwater-blossoms gliding into her hand. To-morrow evening they would watchthat amber star together, stroll along my winding paths as theglow-worms came out. That was to be her theft--to press herself home inthe gla
morous irresistible moment, let what would afterwards befall. Mymodest little estate was to be her antechamber to paradise, andunwittingly I had set open the gates of it for her myself.

  And she was laughing at me for it--openly laughing at me.

  "Well--the portrait for the Lyonnesse Club's getting along very nicely,George," she laughed.

  "Dear, dear Julia----" I began.

  "That earnest expression's rather good. What a pity I didn't bring mypainting-tools--we might have got a good day's work done to-morrow."

  "My dear----"

  Then, suddenly, "How long have you actually known Derry, George?" shedemanded.

  "About fifteen years."

  "Not longer? Then you don't know what's coming next?"

  I don't like to be smiled at as she was smiling. I jumped up.

  "Yes I do," I said with a flush. "What's coming next is that you're notgoing to do this. You're going to promise me not to. Be his secretary,his nurse, his housekeeper, anything else you like, but you're not to dothis. It it's nothing else it's----"

  "Taking a mean advantage, you mean?" she supplied the words for me. "Buthe never did know anything about women. Why shouldn't he learn, poordear?"

  "Julia, you _can't_ have thought! A man without an age! A man, exceptfor you and me, without even a name a week together! A man who says ofhimself that he's to all intents and purposes a ghost haunting anybodywho happens to know anything about him!... Anyway you shan't."

  "Shan't I, George?" she asked with a long deep look into my eyes.

  "That you shall not."

  She too rose and stood before me, one elbow on the mantelpiece. She drewup the walking-skirt an inch or two and pushed at a log with her foot.

  "Of course it isn't as if you and I could ever quarrel, George," shesaid. "There, I'm burning your sister's slipper. I say we can't quarrel,because we're ever so far beyond that. Therefore we can talk quiteplainly about anything on earth, or under it, or above it. So now tellme why I mustn't marry Derry."

  I thought of the man upstairs, of the spirit-kettle on his table, ofwhy he must be alone when he woke in the morning.

  "There are physical reasons, if there weren't any others."

  "Of course. He'll get younger. He'll be sixteen. Well, I can be hismother then. But I shall have _been_ his wife."

  "For how long?"

  She lifted her beautiful shoulders. "What does that matter? I said hiswife. Does any bride on her wedding-day ask herself how long it's for?There have been widows who've never even taken breakfast with theirhusbands."

  "But they married men like other men."

  "Pooh! Tell that to any woman in love! They're all Derrys as long as itlasts, and he's Derry as long as it lasts."

  "But his memory?"

  "We don't know that anything's the matter with it. Really you're veryhard to please, George. First you complain that he's got too much memoryand he's writing what you call a wicked book with it. Now you seemafraid he hasn't enough to get married with. If he's happier without amemory at all, what's the odds?"

  "But yourself?"

  "Oh, I can look after myself--now! And anyway you needn't worry about_my_ memory!"

  Yet that was what I was worrying about. How gorgeously she had enrichedher memories that very day I had seen for myself. Openly she exulted inher treasures. But what was to be the end of it all? By marriage did shemean one last wild lovely memory more and after that--nothing? If so,was ever degree so inconceivably prohibited? A dark-haired child in thewrong seat in a village church--a few odd hours in the country that itmight have been a mercy to spare her--that day in my own house andgrounds--to-morrow with whatever it might bring--perhaps another day ortwo unless he overtook another milestone before then ... and then therelative and inevitable sequence: his bride, his elder sister, hismother, aunt, elderly adviser and friend, and so on to the close. Thiswas the prospect she was deliberately embracing. Here she espied herjoy....

  And should there be a child?...

  She had sat down again. That appearance of a quarrel between two peoplewho could never quarrel was at an end. I lifted the logs, arranged hershawl again, and then also sat down. Mrs Moxon brought in a tray, withhot milk and biscuits for her and whisky for myself. She set a smalltable between us. Julia's slender fingers played as it were a tune asshe moved the too-hot glass from one position to another. Mrs Moxon gavea final glance round, wished us good night, and went out again. I mixedmyself a peg, and then turned to Julia.

  "I think you were going to tell me, when I interrupted you, whathappened before I knew Derry," I said.

  Little pistol-like cracks began to break from the green-oak logs I hadmoved. A thin pouring of amethyst streamed up the chimney-back, and theheart of the fire was intense pink and salmon. The glow from the ceilingmade semi-transparent the rich shadows of the farther recesses of theroom. It was true that as against my fifteen years she had known him formore than thirty. My own personal knowledge of his history was now onthe point of failing. Only to her could I look for an anticipation ofwhat might next be expected.

  "Yes," she said musingly. "Anyway I'm prepared for it."

  "What was it?"

  "You don't know?"

  "Only in a general way that at some time or other he must have travelleda good deal."

  She nodded. "That's it. His Wanderjahre. He walked mostly--Italy,Germany, France, racketed about all over the place. Broke heartswherever he went too I expect. It was then that he picked up hiswonderful French."

  "Then do you think that that phase is--falling due again?"

  She shook her head slowly. How could she tell? "I only had occasionalletters from him at that time. Usually to smuggle him out some tobaccoor see about a letter of credit or something. I had one from Siena, andone from Trieste, and another from Nimes.... But," she added briskly,"if I married him of course I should go with him. That would solveeverything."

  "Would it!"

  "I mean if his appearance changed much. You say yourself he can't stopin one place for long. He can't even take an ordinary job. And you seemto think that's a reason why I shouldn't marry him. But to my mind it'sthe very reason why I should. He shan't be left to tramp the world allalone, poor boy. I'm quite a good walker."

  But for the shawl round her shoulders, the glass of hot milk and mysister's slippers, she seemed ready to start immediately.

  "Julia, are you well off?" I suddenly asked her.

  She smiled. "The sooner I'm paid for that portrait of you the better,George," she said.

  "Because," I continued, "his royalties won't keep his boots soled, andas for that mad idea of fighting Carpentier----"

  She made an indifferent gesture within the shawl and sipped her milk.

  "And now," I pursued her, "I want you to notice how you've changed yourmind this last half-hour or so. As you sit there now you haven't theleast intention of becoming his secretary. In fact you're calmlyplanning how you can murder that book of his."

  "How do you know that, George?"

  "You are. Remember the flash-lamp. _He_ wants to light up his time-scalefrom sixteen to forty or thereabouts. _You_ want it like aburning-glass, all concentrated in one brilliant spot--yourself. Inother words you're planning a mental assault on him."

  She laughed delightedly. "Before committing a physical one? George, youshock me! I hope you're not going to lock me into my room!"

  "Further than that. You don't intend to lose a moment of time, becausethose Wanderjahre may be drawing very near."

  Her mouth was prim. "It's a difficult position, George."

  "Do you intend to ask him outright to marry you?"

  "It's a very difficult position," she repeated demurely. "Suppose heaccepted me one day and forgot all about it the next. I should have topropose to him daily, shouldn't I?"

  "I don't think you need joke about it."

  Her daring eyes positively fondled my face. She showed all her teeth ina wide smile.

  "Why not?" she asked. "What else is there to do? You would
n't have metake it seriously, would you? How can it be taken seriously?"

  And she added, stretching her long hands to the fire, "Why, it would bethe least serious marriage there ever was!"

  III

  By breakfast-time the next morning I had taken a resolve. I had sleptlittle for thinking of it. I intended, if I could, to make Derry talkabout his book.

  For while I abhorred the very idea of that book, there was one thing Iabhorred more. This was the thought of the collapse of his memory. Ifanything happened to that the situation was horribly simple. A man who,from having had two memories, passes to not having one at all,is--gently but without any further pother--locked up. And had that beenthe end of it I don't think I should have had the heart to write Derry'stale.

  He came down, shaven, radiant, hungry. I had heard his plunge into thelake three quarters of an hour before. Julia too was fresh as the dew,and ate heartily. So, over coffee and kidneys and bacon, with suchoffhandedness as I could assume, I asked him point-blank how his bookwas getting on.

  A wave of thankfulness passed over me at his very first words.

  "I say, George," he protested, "this is a holiday, you know. Must wetalk shop? By sheer strength of will I've put it all on one side for acouple of days, and here you are trying to shove my nose back on to thegrindstone again! Bit of a nigger-driver you are.... Well, just for thelength of one pipe; after that shop's taboo for the rest of the day.What is it you want to know about it?"

  "Oh, just how it's shaping."

  He told me. His account of it as far as it had gone, his projection ofthe continuing portion, were perfectly lucid, reasoned, logical. Hebrought all his faculties to bear, was completely master of himself. Hismemory was as clear in both directions as it had been. I tested this bymeans of one or two questions that otherwise are of no importance here.All was well. My most dreaded fear was removed. Indeed it was I who, atthe end of our pipe, had to change the subject.

  One awkward, rather shamefaced explanation, however, he did make. Thiswas both to Julia and to myself.

  "I ought to say one thing while I'm about it," he said in a halting andembarrassed voice. "I got your note, Julia. I know what you mean. Howyou tumbled to it I don't know, and I needn't say it's an unspeakablecomfort having the two of you. I'm not going to look a gift-horse likethat in the mouth, so if you don't mind we won't talk about it. Isuppose George told you, though?"

  "Yes."

  "Then that's all right. Of course he won't tell anybody else. If he'dasked me first I might have kicked a bit, but it's turned out all right,so that's all we need worry about.... Now what are we going to doto-day? Those trout at all muddy, George? Give me a mayfly and let'shave a try at one of 'em----"

  I got him a rod and warned him against the telephone-wire that has tocross one end of the pond. I left him and Julia mounting the cast on theverandah.

  I went up to my study. I went there from a motive not unlike gratitudeto God. An embodied ghost Derry might be to the rest of the world, butour little private triumvirate had still a normal basis. He understoodthe whole situation, and so to us was no ghost. Nor was even theprospect of his Wanderjahre now quite so intimidating. The terror wouldhave been to think of him as an _ignis fatuus_, unconscious of himself,flitting hither and thither over the face of the Continent at large._Cogito, ergo sum._ The distance of the lamp from the table's edge wasapparently not an irrevocably fixed factor. "By sheer strength of will"he had been able to vary it. He _could_ enjoy intensely and reasoninfallibly, if not at one and the same time, at any rate by turns. He_was_ still capable of work and of play, and at the maximum of either.

  How, then, did she stand with her wild scheme of marrying him?

  I sat down at my table and worked it out thus:

  While he was in his working But while he was at play his mood he was inaccessible to accessibility was a raised her. power.

  As his secretary she could not But as his playmate she met hope for more than a repetition him on his return journey--he of her former experience. as he had been, but she far more _rusee_ and resolved.

  His work occupied by far the Therefore his work stood in greater portion of his time. her way.

  Therefore his work must be But I had encouraged him to discouraged. speak of it.

  I had done her a disservice. But they were at play at this moment, setting up a fishing-rod on the verandah.

  His Wanderjahre would presently She knew this, and would be upon him again. lose no time.

  I think that states it fairly.

  And she had the whole day and the whole of to-morrow before her.

  I began to wonder whether I had done wisely in asking them to stay afterall.

  But perhaps I was troubling myself unnecessarily about thismoonshine-marriage after all. What about him? He at least would see themonstrous anomaly and would never allow it. He at any rate knew that ifthere was one place on earth where no woman must come it was into hisroom between evening and dawn. Things far too terrifying and precisehappened during those hours. He knew this, and five minutes between himand myself would settle Julia's business once for all.

  But again I saw in a flash where I was wrong. Five minutes between himand myself? It couldn't be done. Why? For the simple reason that, inorder to talk to me at all on such a matter, he would have to be in hisaware and "working" mood--the very mood in which he had always beeninaccessible to her. My answer would be a stare from those steadygrey-blue eyes. "Marry Julia!" he would exclaim. "My dear chap, what onearth are you talking about? If I'd ever dreamed of marrying Juliashouldn't I have done it years ago? It's the very last thing in theworld I ever thought of!" That would be his reply to me. I should bewarning him against a contingency he had never for a moment entertained.

  And yet--for even that was not the end of it--it was perfectly possiblethat with that word "Preposterous!" still on his lips he might gostraight to her, hand her into the punt, once more alter his focus ofintelligence, and be under her spell again before they were half-wayacross the pond....

  Suddenly I heard his call below: "Quick, Julia, the net--I've got himon!" I stepped out on to the balcony to watch. It was one of thethree-pounders, making a good fight for it. But he had little chanceagainst my green-heart in Derry's hand. Three minutes settled it. Therehe lay on the bank, with Derry and Julia bending over him. I think shethought him a lucky fish to have been caught by Derry. I descended andjoined them.

  "Going to try for another?" I asked him. But already he was taking downthe rod.

  "No, we thought of doing a bit of crosscut sawing for a change."

  "Not the incinerator?" I hinted with a glance at Julia.

  "Ah yes, I'd forgotten about the incinerator," he exclaimed. "Whichshall we do, Julia? Walk on to the blacksmith's or do the sawing? Thesawing I think; it'll take some time to cut the rods, and we can send alad with the sizes and fetch them after lunch. Do the boys come to batheon Saturdays, George?"

  "They do," I said with another glance at her.

  I saw the little mutinous dip of the corners of her mouth.

  I am not going to take you in detail through the whole of that day. Forhalf the afternoon they disappeared; they had gone for a walk in theneighbouring woods; but they were back in time for the bathing-parade.Again Derry swam, with the boys, while I lay with Julia in the punt.

  We occupied opposite ends of it, and hardly spoke. The commotion made bythe swimmers was almost spent by the time it reached our end of thepond, and we moved almost imperceptibly under the oaks, with now a softtouch on the bank, then a little way out, and then the glide to the bankagain. A sort of amicable hostility seemed to have settled between us.It seemed to be understood that she would do what she would do, and Ishould prevent it if I could. I could see the soles
of her walking-shoesand her worsted-clad ankles as I lay, and I mused on the contrasts inher. She was ready to be off with him anywhere, anyhow; but the eveningbefore she had been glad of a glass of hot milk and a fire to warm herhands at. She might, as she said, be a good walker, but she had drawn mysister's shawl closely enough about her shoulders to keep out the nightair. She was a young forty, yet somehow hardly young enough to traipsehouseless after him wherever his whim might lead him. She was notaltogether irresponsible, and yet she contemplated "the least seriousmarriage there ever was."

  The punt rocked as she suddenly sat half up. "Are you asleep, George?"

  "No."

  "I nearly was. I can't imagine why you ever come to London when you've aplace like this to bask in. How do you manage to get any work done?"

  "I can't say I am doing a great deal at present."

  "Now that's the first inhospitable thing you've said. Which is yourstudy--the end room there?" She glanced up at the balcony.

  "Yes."

  "Don't you ever sleep out?"

  "No. My room's at the back, and it's two wide-open windows."

  "I love the ramblers up the pillars! May I have some to take back?"

  "_Mais naturellement._"

  "Ah, but you can't stay that like Derry, George----"

  "I can't do anything like Derry. On the whole I'm not sure that I wantto."

  "You don't believe that sometimes one single hour may be worth all therest of life put together?"

  "I suppose I'm the other kind of man."

  "Ah well!" She stretched herself luxuriously. "I used to think as youdo. But I've learned a lot since then. An awful lot."

  "'Awful's' perhaps the word."

  "But lovely. Anyway who cares? What does it matter? What does anythingmatter? (Oh, look at his dive!) Nothing matters, George--nothing. I dareyou to say it does."

  "It might be difficult to run the world on those lines."

  "Oh, I don't know. It's in a pretty ghastly muddle as it is. Do youknow, I've made a discovery about that, George."

  "Really?"

  "It's this: That we make the mistake of regarding the world as full ofrational people, with perhaps a few particularly stupid ones here andthere. Now if you'll only regard it as full of perfect zenies, with justonce in a while a reasonable being among them, that would explaineverything."

  "You'd better go to sleep again, Julia."

  "But it is so. I see it, oh so clearly! And you don't worry aboutanything then--what anybody thinks or says or does or anything. You justtake the funny old peepshow as it is. That's the way to live."

  "On an endless walking-tour?"

  "Why not, if you're in jolly places all the time?"

  "Siena? Nimes? Trieste?"

  "Literal George!... But really, nothing matters. Everything except thepresent moment is meant to be forgotten. It's the only one you live in.In the past you're dead and in the future you aren't born yet--excepthim.... George----"

  "Hm?"

  "Girls nowadays _do_ have an awfully easy time!... You've only got tolook at their clothes. We dressed down to our toes and up to our ears,and that meant we had to take a good deal of trouble about things. Wehad to make a little go a long way, so to speak--talk, and smile, and beamusing, and think what we said. If we didn't we were soon left out inthe cold. But girls nowadays simply powder their shoulder blades anddress to their knees more or less, and that's all. Lots of 'em neveropen their mouths except to eat. They don't _do_ anything; they getthere by _un_doing something.... But how boring for you, George. Whatdoes it matter as long as you do get there?"

  "I hope you'll think twice before you commit a very great folly," Isaid.

  She laughed. "No, no. I've finished thinking. It was one of my mother'smaxims: 'Take care of your health and don't ever give way to seriousthinking.' Don't you think it's rather good?"

  "I agree as far as your health's concerned."

  "Oh, the other too. She was a wise woman. I've only lately begun torealise how wise.... Ah, they're going in. Come along."

  She stood up in the punt to see whether Derry appeared on the balcony onhis way to dress.

  At teatime I had a caller, a gentle old friend and neighbour of mine,Mrs Truscott. I saw her old-fashioned victoria standing in the drive aswe reached the terrace. Derry was charming to the old lady; Julia--alsocharming, but with some subtle difference that I cannot explain. Aftertea Derry and Julia strolled off to see whether the rods had come fromthe blacksmith's yet, but they stopped to examine the victoria on theway. Mrs Truscott turned to me.

  "What an exceedingly handsome man! But surely she's a good deal olderthan he?"

  "Why do you couple them like that?" I asked.

  "Aren't they engaged?"

  "No."

  She smiled. "Not yet?"

  "Nor likely to be," I risked.

  She shook her head, so that her grey curls trembled about her cheeks.

  "Ah, you bachelors, Sir George! All sorts of things happen under yournoses that you don't see!"

  "I don't think anything's happening here. They've simply been friendssince they were boy and girl together."

  "That's a handicap, I admit," she replied. "Perhaps the worst a womanhas to put up with. But occasionally things happen in spite of it."

  "I really think you're mistaken this time, Mrs Truscott."

  "Well, well, well, well.... And are you writing us another of yourcharming books?"

  It passed at that, but it left me with an uneasy feeling. These oldladies are so very acute.

  Nothing remarkable happened at dinner, except a curious little covertduel between Julia and myself when I once more tried to draw out Derryto talk about his book. I am afraid that she won and I failed.Good-temperedly but flatly he refused to discuss it; he wanted to lookat my Hogarths instead. So I drew the large folio-stand up in front ofthe drawing-room fire, arranged the lights and we turned over theprints. He seemed very much less drowsy; indeed it was half-past ninebefore he spoke of going to bed; and as in the country that is not anunreasonably early hour, and since moreover Julia had sat up late thenight before, I was not surprised when she also said that she wouldretire early. He went first, but she was not long after him. I wastherefore left either to sit over my fire alone, or to follow them,which ever I liked best.

  I went my nightly round, of window-fastenings and so forth; for althoughMrs Moxon has always been round before me, it is my house, and therewould be small satisfaction in scolding her were anything to happen. Asa matter of fact I had that night to reopen the side door, for it hadoccurred to me that the driver of Mrs Truscott's victoria, who wasalmost as old as herself, had the bad habit of leaving the drive-gateopen. Accordingly I walked up the drive, saw that the gate was properlyfastened, and then stood for a moment enjoying the cool air.

  It was a full and late-rising moon, and only the faintest hint of yellowyet lighted the trunks of the plantation behind the house. The overflowfrom the lake, which I never heard in the daytime, sounded loudly. Theevening star had set; the others were exceedingly tiny, pale and remote;in another hour or so they would be almost extinguished in the moon'seffulgence. A glow-worm burned stilly, lighting up the whole leaf as aship's sidelight lights up its painted box. Through a gleam from thehouse a bat flickered. I stood for several minutes; then I turned, wentin, locked up, and ascended to my bedroom.

  This room, I should explain, is at the back of the house and does notoverlook the pond. This is in some ways a drawback, but it has itsadvantages. By foregoing the amenity of sleeping in one of the roomswith the pleasantest view I was able to have a practicallyself-contained suite all to myself--study in front, and dressing-room,bathroom and bedroom all communicating. My books alone run into allthree rooms, and are thus kept together; and the rest of the upper flooris left for my guests and servants. Derry's room was the one next to mystudy. Julia's, like my own, was at the back. I had put her there partlybecause of the second bathroom, and partly because Mrs Moxon would bewithin call had she need of any
thing.

  All was quiet as I entered the room. I switched on my bedside light,undressed, and got into bed. But I was not very sleepy, so I got outagain, reached down a book at random, punched my pillow into positionand began to read.

  I was not very lucky in my book, however, and my attention wandered.From wondering what was wrong with my author I passed away from himaltogether, and presently found myself spinning, as it were, fantasiason life in human terms. And as I continued to do this these fantasiasbegan to accrete more and more about the figure of Derwent Rose.

  What a history had unfolded since that afternoon when I had found him inthe Lyonnesse Club, gazing at his image in the glass of a framed printon the wall! Hitherto I had contemplated that unfolding only a portionat a time. I had typified him as it were in terms of his books, had seenthe man who had written _The Hands of Esau_ give way to him who hadwritten _An Ape in Hell_, and this one in turn to the author of _TheVicarage of Bray_. I had taken him phase by phase; I was not yet sure ofa single unit of the repeating-pattern of his backward life. But thesebooks were not merely his three principal books. They were his onlybooks of any importance. All prior to the _Vicarage_ had beenexperimental, fragmentary, partial--as indeed all he had ever done wasfragmentary and partial by the side of the huge and desperate work henow contemplated. Therefore we were at the end of measurement by books.The rest was in Julia Oliphant's possession. She was now his soleauthentic companion, and soon she would have shouldered even mecompletely out of his life, and would go forward--backward--with himalone.

  My thoughts passed to her. What a history for her too since thatafternoon when I had taken her hands in mine, had asked her a question,and had had her matter-of-fact reply, "Of course; all my life; but itnever made any difference to him." Now it was to make a difference tohim. Though he presently eluded her never so swiftly down the slipperyyears, she had come to the conclusion that it was worth it. And, for afew weeks, a few hours yet, I had to admit that they were notill-matched. Mrs Truscott had thought that she was older than he, buthad none the less assumed them to be lovers. He, of course, had sunkinto a vast of sleep an hour ago, but I wondered whether she was at thatmoment lying awake, scheming, contriving, making sure....

  Then, tired of thought, I switched off my lamp and closed my eyes.

  The rather secluded situation of my house has its reaction on thequality of my sleep. I don't mean that I don't ordinarily sleepperfectly soundly and naturally, but the routine of locking up for thenight sets, as it were, a timepiece in my head. The running of the lake,the night-sounds of animals and birds, the creaking of a bough, themotion of a window-blind in the wind--these are every-night sounds towhich I have grown accustomed; but any unusual sound will bring me wideawake in a moment. Robbery in the neighbourhood is not entirely unknown.

  I had slept for perhaps a couple of hours when I was thus broughtsuddenly awake.

  The moon was high over the plantation; it slanted whitely across mywindow-sash, cut into relief the folds of the casement curtains. Outsidethe night creatures would be at play or about their nocturnalemployments. But it was no owl nor rabbit that I had heard. It had beenthe light crackling of something under a foot. I sat up, still,listening.

  I heard nothing further, and after a minute noiselessly uncovered myselfand slipped out of bed. All the doors of my little suite stood open, sothat I had no handle to turn as I tiptoed from my bedroom into thedressing-room. Thence I could look through the study to the balconybeyond. The night was palely brilliant; my eyes could penetrate into thedetailed depths of the oaks across the pond; I could see the pebbles onthe path, the shadow of a chimney-stack over the bathing-stage. Thebalcony itself, however, was a blackness. On that side of the house amarauder could easily hide.

  I went back to the dressing-room, took down a dark-coloured gown, put iton, and returned through the study. If anybody was lurking about Iwished to be inconspicuous. I reached my writing-table and was about tostep outside when again I heard the sound. It came, not from below, butfrom the balcony itself.

  My study doors are so arranged that I can either hook them half back, atan angle of forty-five, or entirely so, flush against the walls. Thatnight they stood at their fullest width, so that, if anybody was on theverandah, I had not to risk discovering myself as it were obliquely. Iadvanced to the hinged edge and peered cautiously forth.

  Derry was not asleep. He was moving irresolutely, now a few steps thisway, now a few steps that, at the farther end of the balcony, and thenoise I had heard had been the cracking of a fir-cone or fragment ofbark under his feet. His hair was tumbled, he had put on his old tweedjacket, but the pyjama-suit I had lent him was small for him, and hisbare ankles showed above his heelless slippers. There was no light inhis room, and I suddenly remembered that that evening he had not shownhis usual anxiety to be off early upstairs.

  After those immensities of sleep, was he now suffering from insomnia?

  I was about to step out to him when something within me, I really can'ttell you what, drew me swiftly back again. The room past Derry's,opposite which he now stood, was unoccupied, and its windows were closedexcept for the little doors in the upper panes. But somebody was undoinga fastening. I had seen the turn of Derry's head towards me, and hadwithdrawn my own head only just in time. The sound of unfasteningcontinued.

  I think already I knew what I was going to see. By crossing the corridorJulia could enter that unoccupied room, pass through it, and gain thebalcony. Indeed (I struggled to persuade myself) were she sleepless andin need of air there was no reason why she shouldn't. But I knew that Imocked myself. I knew that not sleeplessness had brought her out.Almost, I thought, they must hear the thumping of my heart. I wonderedwhether I dared look again.

  I dared not--yet I had to----

  She had cast over her the Burberry she had brought out for the singleday. She left the bedroom door open behind her and stood with her palehand on the edge of it, not advancing. Slowly his head lifted. His eyesmet hers. I think I could have stepped bodily out and he would not haveseen me for the look he gave her. It was hard, fixed, tranced. Still shedid not move. All her life she had waited for him; it was proper nowthat he should come to her.

  Very slowly he lifted his hands----

  Already I had turned away.

  For I had heard the little flutter of her garments, the rush and catchof her breath----

  Grim King of the Ghosts!

  She was in his arms.

  IV

  The next morning I did not hear his plunge into the lake. This was notbecause I was not back in my own house in time.

  For I had not remained in it. I had dressed, had crept softlydownstairs, and had let myself out, easing the catch of the side-doorbehind me. I had walked to Hindhead, and from the edge of the Punch Bowlhad seen the night end and the day begin. I had watched the cloudletskindle like plumes of the wings of cherubim, ineffable, indifferent,anguishing in that the eye and heart ached and fainted for more thanthey could endure, gazed and yet saw not because of their ownoverbrimming. I had turned away, weary of the heavenly thing, yet hadreturned with tears for more of it. I had cast myself down with my facehidden in the wet earth. I had tried not to think or feel. Had it beenpossible I would have been, not a few miles, but a few worlds away. Andin sober fact I am not sure that I was not worlds away. In the thingthat had happened time, distance, had no meaning. Nothing so mystic inits very nature can be merely _a little_ in error; once it is not right,it is wrong with an unimaginable totality. Ordinary measurement isannihilated; in the very instant of identity the last conceivabledifferences are wrapped up together as in the vital element of a seed. Iam sorry I cannot make this plainer. You either see what had happened oryou don't. It beat and bludgeoned my spirit as I lay there, sometimesquivering, sometimes still, while the sun had risen over the Devil'sPunch Bowl.

  On my return to the house Mrs Moxon met me. She is an efficientcreature, but a little given to impressionistic fancies, and there wasperplexity in her face as I entered by th
e way I had left--the sidedoor.

  "The gentleman and lady don't seem to be having any breakfast, sir," shesaid.

  "Why not?"

  "I'm sure I can't tell you, sir. Mr--Mr Rose asked where you were, andthen said perhaps I'd better keep breakfast back."

  "Where are Mr Rose and Miss Oliphant now?"

  "They went off that way, sir." She nodded in the direction of thekitchen-garden.

  "Then I'll see about it. Have breakfast ready in ten minutes, please."

  The kitchen-garden is not very large, but it is a straggling sort ofplace, being, in fact, the oddments of ground left over when thetennis-court was made. I looked for my guests among the dewy canes, butdid not see them; they were not behind the sweet-pea hedge that made mylungs open of themselves to receive its fragrance. But they had beenthere, for I saw that the roller on the court had been moved. Its barrelwas wet all round with dew, and the patch of grass where it had stoodduring the night was dry.

  Then, just as I was on the point of calling their names, they appearedfrom behind the tall artichoke brake.

  I spoke first, ignoring what Mrs Moxon had told me.

  "Good morning," I called. "Breakfast is just ready. I'm sorry to havekept you waiting. Come along."

  It was Derry who answered, advancing across the court towards me.

  "Ah, there you are. I've been looking for you. I wanted to thank you andsay good-bye. I'm afraid I've got to be pushing along."

  I acted my part as well as I could. "Pushing along! What are you talkingabout? What train are you going by? This is Sunday. Come along in tobreakfast."

  "Oh, I'd a cup of tea and a biscuit in my room, thanks," he saidhesitatingly. "I know it's springing it on you rather suddenly, George,but I really must be getting along."

  "What's all this about? Your book?" I demanded.

  "Yes, the book. Yes, the book, George."

  "But I tell you it's Sunday. There the twelve-forty-six and thefour-fifty. You've missed the eight-fifty-five."

  "I thought of walking," he said.

  "All the way to London? That would take you two days. So it isn't yourbook after all."

  "Oh, I meant part of the way," he evaded, fidgeting. "Guildford orWeybridge or somewhere."

  "And is Julia going to walk to Guildford or Weybridge too? Don't beabsurd. Come along to breakfast."

  Reluctantly he turned his face towards the house.

  I say I acted as well as I could; but it was acting. I had to actbecause I was afraid to face the reality. His haste to be off seemed tomake that reality a twofold possibility. In the highly peculiarcircumstances it was not for me, his host, to inquire whether hescrupled to breakfast or sit down in my house; but it was for me,technically still his friend, to wonder why he had tried to put me offwith some tale about wanting to get on with his book and, in hiseagerness to be gone, proposed to walk to London. It might have beendecency and delicacy. On the other hand, he now experienced everythingwith the greatest intensity, and this sudden and imperious urge to walkmight have been the first faint thrilling of that communicating nervethat, traced back, led to his Wanderjahre.

  At Julia I had not yet dared to look.

  I made him eat whether he wished it or not; oh, I was not above using myadvantage. For he was entirely unaware that the cracking of a fir-coneunder his foot had brought me out of my bed and to the door of my study.It was because he supposed me to have been soundly asleep all night thatI was able to compel him to swallow his punctiliousness at the same timethat he swallowed his trout, coffee and marmalade. If either or all ofthem stuck in his throat there was no remedy for that.... At least so atfirst I thought. But as breakfast proceeded, I began to be strangelyaware of my complete helplessness. Much as I might wish it, I could notwash my hands of him. Once more, the choice was not mine, but his.

  For what could I do with him? Nothing--nothing at all. I was bound handand foot. You cannot turn a two-memoried man out of your house as youcan another. You don't get rid of him if you do. He has hisown--ubiquity. There is only one of him, and you never know where heisn't. It was not now a question of whether he should marry JuliaOliphant, but whether he was to be suffered to vanish, to be swallowedup in the world of men, a drop in the human ocean that did not merge butstill remained a drop, a grain on humanity's shore yet numbered too, ananomaly, a contradiction in nature, a ghost in the flesh, a man amongghosts. For if he was a ghost to us we must be ghosts to him. And ghostdoes not bring ghost to book for reasons of the flesh. No, he was stillDerry, on whom this enormous destiny had alighted. He was not to bejudged.

  Nevertheless he must settle his soul's affairs and eat his breakfastlike anybody else.

  We got through that meal somehow. Julia talked to Derry, and I suppose Ialso was included, but I have no memory of what it was all about. Onevivid little incident, however, I do remember. I learned why the heavyroller on the tennis court had been moved. She had asked Derry whetherhe could lift it, and for answer he had picked it up and held it abovehis head, as once he had held her sewing-machine. So she had gloried inhim.... But of the rest of the conversation I remember nothing.Breakfast over, I excused myself and left them at the table together. Ithad occurred to me that I was still as I had returned from the Devil'sPunch Bowl, and that I had neither shaved nor bathed.

  But on my way to my room Mrs Moxon again met me. She was replacingflowers, and she carried a pail of withered ones in her hand.

  "I beg pardon, sir, but may I ask if you got up in the night?" sheasked.

  "Yes," I answered. "Why?"

  "Only that I fancied I heard somebody moving about," she said.

  "Yes. I went into Mr Rose's room. Then I went out for a walk. I'm notsleeping very well, Mrs Moxon. To-night I shall take a draught."

  She knows my tone. I hope she was satisfied. I passed on to mydressing-room.

  Three quarters of an hour later I came down again. I found Julia at oneof the drawing-room windows, alone and gazing out over the pond. Shestarted at the sound of my voice behind her.

  "Where's Derry?" I had asked.

  "Over there by the punt," she replied.

  I had not noticed him as he had stooped behind the little shelter tountie it.

  "Is he leaving to-day?"

  "I don't know."

  "Are you trying to keep him?"

  She had turned her back on me again and was once more looking out of thewindow. "Of course I'm trying to keep him--so far as I may in somebodyelse's house."

  "Oh.... Why 'of course?'"

  "Of course it's of course. Do you think I'm going to take my eyes offhim for a single moment? You heard what he said before breakfast."

  "About walking to London as the quickest way of getting back to thatbook of his?"

  She did not answer. Derry had moved, and her eyes had instantly movedwith him.

  "Why is he putting out by himself? Why aren't you with him?" I asked.

  "Oh--as long as I know where he is----"

  "Didn't he ask you to join him?"

  "No."

  "The first time for two days?"

  No reply.

  "I wonder why he didn't ask you?"

  "I wonder," she repeated.

  "Have you no idea?"

  With that she suddenly confronted me. She stood with her hands on eitherside of the window-frame, dark against the morning light. She lookedstraight into my eyes.

  "Isn't this rather a catechism, George?" she said. "Your tone too. Iwant you to tell me something. It's this; Are these _really_ thequestions you're wanting to ask me?"

  She said it with the proudest calm; but whatever it was that existedbetween us made me for some moments longer as calm as herself.

  "I do want to know those things. Otherwise I shouldn't have asked you."

  "Oh, I'm afraid I said it badly. That's not what I meant. I mean arethose the _only_ questions you want to ask me?"

  The moment she said it I was much less certain that they were not. Hernext words plunged me still deeper into doubt. She spoke
as it weredirect from the heart of some uttermost complexity.

  "What _is_ the relation between you and me, George?" she demanded.

  I considered, my eyes downcast. I felt hers steadily on my face all thetime. I spoke in a low voice.

  "I'm beginning to know less than ever."

  "You'd hardly call it ordinary, would you--conventional and so on?"

  "That's quite the last word I should use."

  "It's not ordinary because of an extraordinary element that's at thevery root of it. You know what that is; it's"--her eyes went towards thepunt--"it's all him. He's got us all on the run. Give him his head andhe could have the whole world on the run. There's no reason about it; asmany people as knew about him would simply be bewitched. So I've takenit for granted that we don't quite come under everyday rules. We have tobreak and make rules as we go along.... About those questions. Theyreally _are_ all that you want to know--just what he'll do next and soon?" she challenged me.

  I think I should have broken in on the spot with a "Yes--I want to know_nothing_ else--nothing at all!" But she gave me no time. Her eyescalled my own downcast ones peremptorily up from the floor.

  "Because," she said, with the utmost distinctness in the shaping of eachsyllable, "I notice that since breakfast you've shaved, George. You'vealso changed your clothes. One does not usually change one's clothesimmediately after breakfast. I suppose Mrs Moxon is brushing the others.They needed brushing. They had bits of dried grass and heather onthem.... George--George dear--thank you----"

  I spoke in little more than a whisper. "For--going out?"

  "Oh no. For only thinking of it--for only thinking of it. But you wouldthink of it; I always knew you'd be like that.... Now ask me anythingyou like. _Any_thing you like. Only don't ask Derry. It made"--for aninstant only there was the slightest tremor in her voice--"it made nodifference to him."

  What, as she had said, was our relation? Had he "got us going"? Had hesubdued all our standards to his own standardlessness? Had he withdrawnsome linchpin of ordinary conduct from the wheel on which the wholeworld revolves? I didn't know. I don't know now. The more I think of itthe less I know. I only know what I did. Her affairs were her affairs,and I have ado enough to look after my own. I took one of her cool handsin mine, bowed as low over it as if she had been a queen, and kissed it.

  Her other hand rested lightly for a moment on my head as I did so.

  "And now," she resumed in her ordinary tones, "about him."

  He was sitting alone in the punt, some forty yards away, gazing straightbefore him. He had ceased to paddle, the water had ceased to drip fromhis resting blade. It accentuated his isolation that for two whole dayshe had hardly left her side. Restlessness and impatience plainlypossessed him. He was straining to be off. It would not have surprisedme to see him suddenly thrust the paddle in, swirl across the lake, tieup the punt, walk straight up to me, hold out his hand, and say,"George, old man, it's no good--I've got to go this moment." I turned toJulia.

  "If he leaves shall you go with him?" I asked.

  "Leaves here? This house? To-day?"

  "I didn't mean that."

  "You mean if he buckles on his knapsack again?"

  "If that's the next stage."

  "I'm afraid to think."

  "Then you _do_ think he might just--go off?"

  She sighed a little. "I suppose it has to be faced."

  "And in that case would you go with him?"

  She started nervously. He had put in the paddle. But he only gave acouple of strokes, and withdrew it again. Her voice was low.

  "I would, of course. To the end of the world. But that's the wholepoint. He never wanted me. He doesn't want me now. He won't want methen."

  I saw--only too plainly. Naturally he would not want her. It was thevery essence of his wandering that he should be unhampered and alone.That which she now had she had; but it seemed to me that it was all shewould ever have. She had thrown, and--won? Lost? Which? That was for herto say. Had she remained content as she was she might have kept him onthe original terms in perpetuity; but it looked as if in precipitatingthe event she had encompassed her own defeat. Her eyes were now on himas if they would never see him again.

  "Shall we go across to him?" I said.

  She shook her head. "Don't worry him. There's no stopping it. He's boundto go. There, I didn't want to say it, but it's better to face it. He'sfighting with the Wanderlust now. And if he goes it isn't the end. Thereare stages beyond that, and there's no stopping them either. He'll comeback in the end."

  "Then you'll let him go?"

  "He shall do whatever he wishes. It mayn't be for long."

  "How many Wanderjahre had he?"

  "Two--three--I don't quite remember. But that may not mean more than aweek or a fortnight really."

  "And--he'll come back?"

  "He'll come back, or we can go to him. Probably he won't be able to getvery far. Anyway nothing on earth can stop it, so there's no more to besaid."

  I looked at her fixedly, earnestly. "But there is more to be said. Whatabout yourself?" I said quietly.

  For a moment her eyes left that man in the punt who fidgeted to feel thestick in his hand again, the pack on his back and the hard road underhis feet. They smiled dimly into mine.

  "Oh, I'm a painter. There'll be that portrait of yours to startpresently, George."

  And back went the eyes to the motionless figure in the punt.

  V

  Derry stayed to lunch without further pressing. He had made his book hisexcuse; that brushed aside, he had no choice but to stay or give hisreason for not staying. So, as a man who is starting on a walking-tourof indefinite duration can hardly boggle at an hour or two sooner orlater in the starting, and as, moreover, having brought Julia, he mustin ordinary politeness take her back again, he stayed.

  But lunch was nearly as extraordinary as breakfast had been. Once morehe tried to urge his book, and again failed. And I remembered howformerly, in Cambridge Circus, his very thought and essence had beenmodified in my presence, awaiting only sleep to put the visible andphysical seal upon it. It needed only half an eye to see that he nolonger had the least interest in that book. The more he urged it, themore plainly it became a thing of the past. Vivaciously, yet as ifrepeating them from memory, he said things he had said twice and thricebefore; echoes, mere echoes.... And then suddenly he ceased to talkabout his book. He wanted a change, he said; wanted to get awaysomewhere; and this rang instantly true. I fancied he even became alittle cunning. "Do you know, George, I've never in my life been inIreland?" he said. "Only an hour or two away, and I've never been! Lord,how we do sit still in one place! I feel positively ashamed. We settledown--get sitzfleich--heavens, I do want a change!" ... And somehow Iknew that he was dragging in Ireland as a red-herring. He had nointention of going there. That was purely for our benefit. He not onlywanted to go away alone, but he did not wish to have his whereaboutsknown. Only a few hours before he had made much of Julia and myself, ashis only rest and comfort in that wavering ebb of his life; now he nolonger did not need, but very definitely did not want companionship. Andhe threw dust in our eyes. Yes, just a little cunning. I made a note ofit.

  I have said that the afternoon train to town was at four-forty. Therewas not another till seven-eighteen, reaching Waterloo ateight-forty-one. There was little doubt which of the two he wouldchoose. As we all three took a stroll backwards and forwards after lunchhe turned to Julia.

  "Will the four-forty suit you all right?" he asked.

  She only nodded.

  "Right. And I say: would you mind if when we got to town I put you onyour bus at Waterloo and left you? There's a little job I must do."

  "Very well, Derry," she said.

  "And now, George, if you could spare me just a moment----," this time heturned to me.

  Julia walked rather quickly away.

  The "little job" of which he had spoken was this:

  He wanted me--quite at my own convenience, of course, and whene
ver Inext happened to be in town--to arrange for the sale of his things atCambridge Circus. To attend to this himself might be to ask for trouble.So I was to sell everything for what it would fetch and remit the moneyto him.

  "Where?" I asked him. ("Ireland?" I thought.)

  "I shall have to let you know that later," he replied. "I want to sellthe lot and pay all up there; chairs and curtains are no good to a manlike me. I don't suppose I shall ever want 'em again. I shall have tosettle up with Trenchard too, and money's as well in your pocket asanywhere else."

  "Will you have some now to be going on with?"

  "No, that's quite all right. I have all I want for the present, if youwouldn't mind doing this other for me. Thanks, old fellow."

  "Is it to Cambridge Circus that you're going to-night when you leaveJulia?" I asked.

  "Yes. There are one or two small things I want, and also a few things Ithink I'd better destroy."

  "Couldn't you," I said slowly and quite deliberately, "have taken herhome and seen about your things to-morrow?"

  I felt the beginning of his perturbation. "It's so dashed awkward,George," he stammered. "I don't want to go in the daytime."

  "Couldn't you go to-morrow night and still take her home?"

  Again he muttered, his eyes on the ground. "Why waste a day?"

  "If, as you say, you want a change--supposing you were to go offsomewhere for a bit--wouldn't you like somebody with you?"

  "No, George," he answered curtly.

  "You are going away?"

  "Yes," he admitted.

  "Immediately?"

  "Yes."

  "Where to?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "Would you let me come with you?"

  "No."

  "Would you, if it were possible, take Julia?"

  "No."

  "Might both of us come with you together?"

  "No." And, raising his voice, "No, I tell you, no!" he said.

  We had stopped by a rather shabby-looking thicket of rugosa roses nearthe diving-stage. The pink-flowered hedge hid us from the house. I spokequietly, not to give my own agitation too much head.

  "Derry," I said, "you remember what you showed me with that flashlightthat night in your rooms?"

  With marked reluctance he answered, "Yes I do."

  "I've been thinking about that. I've been thinking a lot about it. Ofcourse it makes a considerable difference how far away you hold thelamp."

  "A hell of a difference," he muttered.

  "Do you always hold it at the same distance?"

  His whole mind seemed to wriggle. "I haven't, if you must know. But whydrag all this up again? I offered to tell you before but you wouldn'tlisten."

  "I hadn't the reason then that I have now. Do you--move it aboutdeliberately?"

  "I have to some extent. I told you that. I did by an effort of will whenI came here for a day's rest."

  "A day's rest?... You're not going back to that book. You know thatbetter than I do. That book's all past and done with. Something'shappened since."

  I saw him turn pale. "What do you mean?" he asked almost inaudibly.

  "You came here on Friday midday. I've watched you carefully ever since.Let's--well, let's stick to terms of the flash-lamp. Except for aquarter of an hour or so at breakfast yesterday morning, when you talkedabout your book, you've had that lamp steadily rather close to the edgeof the table. Isn't that so?"

  "I tell you a holiday's a holiday," he said faintly.

  "Let me go on. I want to know how close that lamp has been. The closeryou hold it the more ecstatically you experience, you know. Very well.Now has there been a moment since yesterday when ... _you've held it asclose as you could get it_?"

  I was in time to catch him as he swayed. He clutched at my shoulder.

  "George----"

  "Steady--but tell me----"

  "George--I've been trying to remember----"

  "What! Good God! You don't remem--_so close that you don't remember_?"

  "I honestly--but no, that isn't true--I seem to remember something--letme think, let me think.... What time did I go to bed last night?"

  "Later than usual. Not till half-past nine."

  "What was I doing? Tell me what I was doing. I was looking at picturesor something, wasn't I?"

  "You were looking at the Hogarth prints."

  "Yes, yes, that's right.... I didn't fall asleep, did I?"

  "No, you didn't."

  He muttered thickly. Outrageous, extravagant, beyond reason as it was,his sincerity could not be doubted. "It made no difference to him,"Julia had said; but that her words should be taken _au pied de lalettre_ like that!... He continued to mutter.

  "I do remember something--I do remember--at least I did this morning--Ithought I did--but it went. Why didn't I come into breakfast? _Why_ wasI going away without any breakfast? _Why_ wouldn't I have breakfast,George? I'm sure there was a reason, but I can't for the life of meremember." Then he began to talk rapidly. "That lamp--very close, yousay--touching--something all instantaneous and burning--one intensebrilliant spot--no before or after--all isolated by itself--but I'llswear I didn't fake the lamp that time! By all that's sacred I swear it,George! Something happened in the night that had nothing to do with meat all! It all happens in the night. Why"--he flung out his arms in aperfectly amazing appeal--"if I'd moved the light at all it would havebeen farther away! I _wanted_ to do that book! I thought about nothingelse from the moment I went upstairs! I ached to be at it--wished thiswasted week-end was over--I saw it all again perfectly clearly,beautifully clearly! I'd got out of bed. And then ... everything wentout. It was exactly as if somebody'd taken that torch out of my hand,somebody with a stronger will than mine, and concentrated it--in thevery moment when I saw that book practically written--one bright blazingbull's-eye----"

  There was a little bench about four yards away. I think I needed itssupport more than he. Together we reached it and sat down. He turned thebeautiful grey-blue eyes on me.

  "George," he said more quietly, "something happened. I know it did."

  I made no reply.

  "Something happened. Something's been done to me. Somebody's been takinga hand in my life. At breakfast-time I almost knew what it was. Do _you_know what it was?"

  There was only one possible answer to this. I made it, in a brokenvoice.

  "No, old man, I don't."

  "Except of course that I've slipped back again."

  "Except that, I suppose."

  He passed his hand wearily over his brow, and, much as I hated thatinsolent vainglorious book of his, the gesture with which he wiped itaway went strangely to my heart.

  "Then what's that make the year now? 1903 or 4 I suppose; all blindguessing though; how can you tell your age to a year or two simply byhow you feel?... But that would be about it. I was in the Adriatic in1903; Venice, and across to Genoa and Marseilles. I'd been in Marseillesa few years before and thought I'd like another look at it. Gay place.There was a little cafe on the Vieux Port with a little stage where awoman used to dance. Andalusian; very dark-eyed; pretty sort of wildanimal. She had a little sloping mirror at the top of the stage so shecould see who was in front when she was behind. Wicked show; I wasn'thaving any; knives come out too easily there. But of course she'd gonewhen I went again in 1904."

  I made one more appeal. "Derry, can't you stay here a little longer?"

  But it had now resumed its possession of him. He was almost cheerfulagain.

  "Sorry, George. It's good of you to ask me, but it's quite impossible.Glad Julia was able to take a run down with me; she's a rattling goodsort. I feel rather beastly about shaking her at Waterloo, but I reallymust get up to Cambridge Circus to-night. And if you'll see aboutselling those things, George--any time will do--I've got nearly ahundred pounds, so there's really no hurry--I'll let you know where tosend the money to----"

  * * * * *

  I drove them to the station. As the car turned out of the drive Julia's
eyes took a last look at my balconied house. His spirits were now high;he was on the eve of a holiday. They got into an empty third-classcarriage.

  "Well, thanks most awfully, George," he said.

  We waved hands.

  Both their heads were framed in the window as the train glided out ofthe station.

  That night I once more roamed restlessly from room to room of my house.The place seemed extraordinarily and insistently empty, and I could nothave told you whether I was glad or sorry for it. For this thing wasgetting altogether too much for me. Remember that I am merely acommercially successful English novelist, not a person accustomed to thecontemplation of the mysteries of life and death in terms of electrictorches and bamboo tables. Also a man of my years does not spend a nightat the Devil's Punch Bowl without knowing something about it afterwards.In this connection, going into my dressing-room, I found that after allmy suit of clothes had not been brushed. I summoned Mrs Moxon and toldher to take them away. She stiffened a little, and some part of herclothing creaked.

  "It's made a good deal of extra work for the week-end," she reminded me.

  "I'm sorry for that, but you were consulted beforehand," I said.

  "It was more than I reckoned for," she announced with dignity.

  A little of this was enough.

  "Very well, Mrs Moxon. Take the clothes away, please, and let me havethem to-morrow. By the way, I shall be going up to town by the middaytrain."

  "In that case, sir," she said, "if you're seeing Mr Rose perhaps you'dgive him this. I suppose it's his. I found it in his room."

  She put into my hand a small book covered with shiny black cloth. Iopened it to see what it was.

  A single glance told me. It was Derwent Rose's diary.