markings and the masses of the seas remain intact, and indeed the
only difference seems to be a shrinkage of the white discoloration
(supposed to be frozen water) round either pole." Which only shows
how small the vastest of human catastrophes may seem, at a distance
of a few million miles.




A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON

The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He
moved slowly in spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while
he was still on the platform I noted how ill he seemed. He dropped
into the corner over against me with a sigh, made an incomplete
attempt to arrange his travelling shawl, and became motionless,
with his eyes staring vacantly. Presently he was moved by a sense
of my observation, looked up at me, and put out a spiritless hand
for his newspaper. Then he glanced again in my direction.

I feigned to read. I feared I had unwittingly embarrassed
him, and in a moment I was surprised to find him speaking.

"I beg your pardon?" said I.

"That book," he repeated, pointing a lean finger, "is about
dreams."

"Obviously," I answered, for it was Fortnum Roscoe's Dream
States, and the title was on the cover.