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welcoming light of familiarity. I love the transition that can
be so subtly gradated by the spirit between one scene and
another. The man who awakens one fine morning in his London
residence, scratches his head, and says, What shall I do today?
By Jove! I'll start for Timbuctoo! is to me an
incomprehensible, incomplete being. He lacks an aesthetic sense.
I did not dare tell Judith she lacked an aesthetic sense. I
might just as well have accused her of stealing silver spoons. I
said I should miss her (which I certainly shall), and promised to
write to her once a week.
And you, said I, will have heaps of time to write me the
History of a Sequestered and Meditative Selfmeanwhile, let us
go out somewhere and dine.
When I got home, I found a card on my halltable. Mr. Sebastian
Pasquale.
I am sorry I missed Pasquale. I haven't seen him for two or
three years. He is a fascinating youth, a study in reversion. I
will ask him to dinner here some day soon. It will be quieter
than at the club.
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 booklined 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
Antoinette who came to demand permission to keep a cat.
What kind of a cat? I asked.
Perhaps Monsieur does not like cats? she inquired, anxiously.
The cat was worshipped as a god by the ancient Egyptians, I
remarked.

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