Of course--you will."

He did. He does. There he sits behind me now, stuffing--as I live!--
a third go of buttered tea-cake. And no one in the whole world knows--
except his housekeeper and me--that he weighs practically nothing;
that he is a mere boring mass of assimilatory matter, mere clouds
in clothing, niente, nefas, the most inconsiderable of men. There
he sits watching until I have done this writing. Then, if he can,
he will waylay me. He will come billowing up to me. . . .

He will tell me over again all about it, how it feels, how it
doesn't feel, how he sometimes hopes it is passing off a little.
And always somewhere in that fat, abundant discourse he will say,
"The secret's keeping, eh? If any one knew of it--I should be
so ashamed. . . . Makes a fellow look such a fool, you know.
Crawling about on a ceiling and all that. . . ."

And now to elude Pyecraft, occupying, as he does, an admirable
strategic position between me and the door.


5. MR. SKELMERSDALE IN FAIRYLAND

"There's a man in that shop," said the Doctor, "who has been in
Fairyland."

"Nonsense!" I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual
village shop, post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and
brushes outside, boots, shirtings, and potted meats in the window.
"Tell me about it," I said, after a pause.