outrageous proposition, because it brought him back to the solid
ground of reason and the assurance that some things simply do not
happen. From this extravagant summit of horror, his fears gradually
receded. Such a waking nightmare even quieted his nerves when it
was past; for if a possibility presents a ludicrous side, then its
horror must diminish by so much. Moreover, Henry told himself that
if the threat of a disaster so absolute could really be felt by him,
it was his duty to rise at once, intervene, and, if necessary,
summon his uncle and force May to leave the Grey Room immediately.

This idea amused him again and offered another jest. The tragedy
really resolved into jests. He found himself smiling at the
picture of May being treated like a disobedient schoolboy. But
if that happened, and Tom was proclaimed the sinner, what must be
Henry's own fate? To win the reputation of an unsportsmanlike
sneak in Mary's opinion as well as Tom's. He certainly could call
upon nobody to help him now. But he might go and look up May
himself. That would be very sharply resented, however. He
travelled round and round in circles, then asked himself what he
would do and say to-morrow if anything happened to Tom--nothing,
of course, fatal, but something perhaps so grave that May himself
would be unable to explain it. In that case Henry could only state
facts exactly as they had occurred. But there would be a deuce of
a muddle if he had to make statements and describe the exact
sequence of recent incidents. Already he forgot the exact sequence.
It seemed ages since he parted from May. He broke off there, rose,
drank a glass of water, and lighted a cigarette. He shook himself
into wakefulness, condemned himself for this debauch of weak-minded
thinking, found the time to be three o'clock, and brushed the whole
cobweb tangle from his mind. He knew that sudden warmth after cold