and it gave way, and he flew back to the ceiling again, while
the picture smashed onto the sofa. Bump he went against the ceiling,
and I knew then why he was all over white on the more salient curves
and angles of his person. He tried again more carefully, coming
down by way of the mantel.

It was really a most extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat,
apoplectic-looking man upside down and trying to get from the ceiling
to the floor. "That prescription," he said. "Too successful."

"How?"

"Loss of weight--almost complete."

And then, of course, I understood.

"By Jove, Pyecraft," said I, "what you wanted was a cure for fatness!
But you always called it weight. You would call it weight."

Somehow I was extremely delighted. I quite liked Pyecraft for the time.
"Let me help you!" I said, and took his hand and pulled him down.
He kicked about, trying to get a foothold somewhere. It was very like
holding a flag on a windy day.

"That table," he said, pointing, "is solid mahogany and very heavy.
If you can put me under that---"

I did, and there he wallowed about like a captive balloon, while
I stood on his hearthrug and talked to him.