"You see--what?" he asked presently.

"Nothing," I was obliged to admit disappointedly; "nothing but the usual
flashes of light one always sees. Only, perhaps, they are more vivid
than usual."

He said nothing by way of comment or reply.

"And they group themselves now and then," I continued, with painful
candour, for I longed to see the pictures he had spoken of, "group
themselves into globes and round balls of fire, and the lines that flash
about sometimes look like triangles and crosses--almost like geometrical
figures. Nothing more."

I opened my eyes again, and gave him back the letter.

"It makes my head hot," I said, feeling somehow unworthy for not seeing
anything of interest. But the look in his eyes arrested my attention at
once.

"That sensation of heat is important," he said significantly.

"It was certainly real, and rather uncomfortable," I replied, hoping he
would expand and explain. "There was a distinct feeling of
warmth--internal warmth somewhere--oppressive in a sense."

"That is interesting," he remarked, putting the letter back in his
pocket, and settling himself in the corner with newspapers and books. He
vouchsafed nothing more, and I knew the uselessness of trying to make
him talk. Following his example I settled likewise with magazines into