It was in the late spring that he came home from work one night aware of
unusual tiredness. There was a keen expectancy in the air as he sat down
to the table, but he did not notice. He went through the meal in moody
silence, mechanically eating what was before him. The children um'd and
ah'd and made smacking noises with their mouths. But he was deaf to them.

"D'ye know what you're eatin'?" his mother demanded at last, desperately.

He looked vacantly at the dish before him, and vacantly at her.

"Floatin' island," she announced triumphantly.

"Oh," he said.

"Floating island!" the children chorussed loudly.

"Oh," he said. And after two or three mouthfuls, he added, "I guess I
ain't hungry to-night."

He dropped the spoon, shoved back his chair, and arose wearily from the
table.

"An' I guess I'll go to bed."

His feet dragged more heavily than usual as he crossed the kitchen floor.
Undressing was a Titan's task, a monstrous futility, and he wept weakly as
he crawled into bed, one shoe still on. He was aware of a rising, swelling
something inside his head that made his brain thick and fuzzy. His lean
fingers felt as big as his wrist, while in the ends of them was a
remoteness of sensation vague and fuzzy like his brain. The small of his