roof--if his feat had been
wholly, as perhaps it was in part, a feat of mere wistfulness and
longing--then I should have felt really sorry for him; and my conscience
would have soundly rated me in his behalf. But no; if the wretched
creature HAD been invisible to me, I shouldn't have thought of Braxton
at all--except with gladness that he wasn't here. That he was visible to
me, and to me alone, wasn't any sign of proper remorse within me. It was
but the gauge of his incredible ill-will.

'Well, it seemed to me that he was avenged--with a vengeance. There I
sat, hot-browed from sleeplessness, cold in the feet, stiff in the legs,
cowed and indignant all through--sat there in the broadening daylight,
and in that new evening suit of mine with the Braxtonised shirtfront
and waistcoat that by day were more than ever loathsome. Literature's
Ambassador at Keeb.... I rose gingerly from my chair, and caught
sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror. I heard
the twittering of birds in distant trees. I saw through my window the
elaborate landscape of the Duke's grounds, all soft in the grey bloom of
early morning. I think I was nearer to tears than I had ever been since
I was a child. But the weakness passed. I turned towards the personage
on my bed, and, summoning all such power as was in me, WILLED him to be
gone. My effort was not without result--an inadequate result. Braxton
turned in his sleep.

'I resumed my seat, and... and... sat up staring and blinking, at a tall
man with red hair. "I must have fallen asleep," I said. "Yessir," he
replied; and his toneless voice touched in me one or two springs
of memory: I was at Keeb; this was the footman who looked after me.
But--why wasn't I in bed? Had I--no, surely it had been no nightmare.
Surely I had SEEN Braxton on that white bed.

'The footman was impassively putting away my smoking-suit. I was too
dazed to wonder what he thought of me. Nor did I attempt to stifle a
cry when, a moment later, turning in my chair, I beheld Braxton leaning
moodily against the mantelpiece. "Are you unwell sir?" asked the footman.
"No," I said faintly, "I'm quite well."--"Yessir. Will you wear the blue
suit or the grey?"--"The grey."--"Yessir."--It seemed almost incredible
that HE didn't see Braxton; HE didn't appear to me one whit more solid
than the night-shirted brute who stood against the mantelpiece and
watched him lay out my things.--"Shall I let your bath-water run
now sir?"