his duty. But it was at least mainly Old Testament stuff, like
polygamy, Joshua, and the 'unclean beasts.' The 'unclean beasts.'
It was simply, as Simon had said, mainly an affair of the nerves,
like Indian jugglery. He had heard of dozens of such cases, or
similar cases. And it was hardly likely that cases even remotely
like his own would be much bragged about, or advertised. All
those mysterious 'disappearances,' too, which one reads about so
repeatedly? What of them? Even now, he felt (and glanced swiftly
behind him at the fancy), it would be better to think as softly
as possible, not to hope too openly, certainly not to triumph in
the least degree, just in case of--well--listeners.

He would wrap up too. And he wouldn't tell Sheila of the project
till he had come safely back. What an excellent joke it would be
to confess meekly to his escapade, and to be scolded, and then
suddenly to reveal himself. He sat back and gazed with an almost
malignant animosity at the face in the portrait, comely and
plump.

An inarticulate, unfathomable depression rolled back on him, like
a mist out of the sea. He hastily undressed, put watch and
door-key and Critchett's powder under his pillow, paused,
vacantly ruminated, and then replaced the powder in his waistcoat
pocket, said his prayers, and got shivering to bed. He did not
feel hurt at Sheila's leaving him like this. So long as she
really believed in him. And now--Alice was home. He listened,
trying not to shiver, for her voice; and sometimes heard, he
fancied, the clear note. It was this beastly influenza that made
him feel so cold and lifeless. But all would soon come right--
that is, if only that face, luminous against the floating