thought seriously of consulting him as to the wisest and fairest
course to pursue.

None the less, the restlessness and impatience bred of nearly three days
of enforced inaction possessed him like a devil. After another of Sum
Fat's admirable dinners, his craving for open air and exercise drove him
out, despite the failing light, to explore the clearing rather
thoroughly, and to some extent the surrounding woodlands. At one time,
indeed, he caught sight, through thinning trees, of a summer home
somewhat more pretentious than Half-a-loaf Lodge--evidently the property
termed by Ember "the Fiske place." But it was then so nearly dark that
he didn't pause to investigate an impression that the place was
tenanted, contradictory to his host's casual statement; and he was back
on the bungalow porch in time to see the moon lift up like a great
shield of brass through the haze beyond the barrier beach.

Sounds of splashings and of song drew him down to the water's edge, to
find that Sum Fat had rowed out to the anchored cat-boat and, almost as
naked as industrious, was bailing it clear of the three days'
accumulation of rain-water. He came in, presently, and having performed
what was probably at least the eighth cleaning of his teeth since
morning, went to bed.

Wearying at length of the lunar spectacle, and quite as weary of the
sedulous attentions of a cloud of famished mosquitoes, Whitaker lounged
disconsolately indoors to a pipe and a book by candle-light. But the one
needed cleaning, and the other was out of tune with his temper, and the
flame of the candle excited the amorous interest of a great fluttering
fool of a moth until Whitaker blew it out and sat on in darkness, not
tired enough to go to bed, too tired to bestir himself and seek
distraction from a tormenting train of thought.

A pool of limpid moonlight lay like milk upon the floor beneath a window
and held his dreaming gaze while memory marshalled for his delectation a
pageant of wasted years, infinitely desolate and dreary in his vision. A
life without profit, as he saw it: an existence rendered meaningless by
a nameless want--a lack he had not wit to name.... The romance of his
life enchanted him, its futility furnished him a vast and profound
perplexity. To what end?--this was the haunting burden of his
complaint....

How long he sat unstirring, preoccupied with fruitless inquiry, he did
not guess. But later he reckoned it could not have been long after te