CHAPTER III


May 24th.

Something has happened. Something fantastic, inconceivable. I
am in a condition to be surprised at nothing. If a witch on a
broomstick rode in through my open window and lectured me on
quaternions, I should accept her visit as a normal occurrence.

I have spent hours walking up and down this book-lined room,
wondering whether the universe or I were mad. Sometimes I
laughed, for the thing is sheerly ridiculous. Sometimes I cursed
at the impertinence of the thing in happening at all. Once I
stumbled over a volume of Muratori lying on the floor, and I
kicked it across the room. Then I took it up, and wept over the
loosened binding.

The question is: What on earth am I to do? Why has Judith chosen
this particular time to shut up her flat and sequester herself in
Paris? Why did my lawyers appoint this particular morning for me
to sign their silly documents? Why did I turn up three hours
late? Why did I walk down the Thames Embankment? And why, oh,
why, did I seat myself on a bench in the gardens below the
terrace of the National Liberal Club?

Yesterday was one of the most peaceful and happy days of my
existence. I worked contentedly at my history; I gossiped with