some one else to swallow. . . . Then with a rush the ceiling came
back into view: he was aware that he was lying in bed under a red
coverlet; that the room was large and airy about him; and that
two persons, a doctor in white and a nurse, were watching him. He
rested in that knowledge for a long time, watching memory
reassert itself. Detail after detail sprang into view: farther
and farther back into his experience, far down into the childhood
he had forgotten. He remembered now who he was, his story, his
friends, his life up to a certain blank day or set of days,
between him and which there was nothing. Then he saw the faces
again, and it occurred to him, with a flash as of illumination,
to ask. So he began to ask; and he considered carefully each
answer, turning it over and reflecting upon it with what seemed
to him an amazing degree of concentration.

". . . So I am in Westminster Hospital," he considered. "That is
extraordinarily interesting and affecting. I have often seen the
outside of it. It is of discoloured brick. And I have been
here . . . how long? how long, did they say? . . . Oh! that is a
long time. Five days! And what in the world can have happened to
my work? They will be looking out for me in the Museum. How can
Dr. Waterman's history get on without me? I must see about that
at once. He'll understand that it's not my fault. . . .

"What's that? I mustn't trouble myself about that? But--Oh! Dr.
Waterman has been here, has he? That's very kind--very kind and
thoughtful indeed. And I'm to take my time, am I? Very well.
Please thank Dr. Waterman for his kindness and his
thoughtfulness in enquiring. . . . And tell him I'll be with him
again in a day or two at any rate. . . . Oh! tell him that he'll