I, too, prodded the sand.

"Well," I said at length, "I do feel rather a fool."

"I've no right even to beg your pardon, but--''

"Oh, I'm not vexed. Only--I rather wish you hadn't told me this."

"I wish I hadn't had to. It was your kindness, you see, that forced
me. By trying to take an imaginary load off my conscience, you laid a
very real one on it."

"I'm sorry. But you, of your own free will, you know, exposed your
conscience to me last year. I don't yet quite understand why you did
that."

"No, of course not. I don't deserve that you should. But I think you
will. May I explain? I'm afraid I've talked a great deal already about my
influenza, and I sha'n't be able to keep it out of my explanation. Well,
my weakest point--I told you this last year, but it happens to be perfectly
true that my weakest point--is my will. Influenza, as you know, fastens
unerringly on one's weakest point. It doesn't attempt to undermine my
imagination. That would be a forlorn hope. I have, alas! a very strong
imagination. At ordinary times my imagination allows itself to be
governed by my will. My will keeps it in check by constant nagging.
But when my will isn't strong enough even to nag, then my imagination
stampedes. I become even as a little child. I tell myself the most
preposterous fables, and--the trouble is--I can't help telling them to my
friends. Until I've thoroughly shaken off influenza, I'm not fit company
for any one. I perfectly realize this, and I have the good sense to go right