at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and undefined darkness
contrasting with one another. Soon he became conscious of an
odd odour, at first the merest suggestion of odour, in the room,
and as it grew more decided he felt surprised that he was not
reminded of the chemist's shop or the surgery. Clarke found
himself idly endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and half
conscious, he began to think of a day, fifteen years ago, that
he had spent roaming through the woods and meadows near his own
home. It was a burning day at the beginning of August, the heat
had dimmed the outlines of all things and all distances with a
faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer spoke of an
abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost tropical.
Strangely that wonderful hot day of the fifties rose up again in
Clarke's imagination; the sense of dazzling all-pervading
sunlight seemed to blot out the shadows and the lights of the
laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in gusts
about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf, and heard
the myriad murmur of the summer.

"I hope the smell doesn't annoy you, Clarke; there's
nothing unwholesome about it. It may make you a bit sleepy,
that's all."

Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that
Raymond was speaking to him, but for the life of him he could
not rouse himself from his lethargy. He could only think of the
lonely walk he had taken fifteen years ago; it was his last look
at the fields and woods he had known since he was a child, and
now it all stood out in brilliant light, as a picture, before
him. Above all there came to his nostrils the scent of summer,