t for ever. I've got to lead my own life and if
you won't come with me I must go off by myself--"

He was following his own ideas now--not looking at his father at all.
"I've discovered since I've been home that I'm not the sort of fellow
to settle down. I suppose I shall go on wandering about all my days.
I'm not proud of myself, you know, father. I don't seem to be much good
to any one, but the trouble is I don't want to be much better. I feel
as though it wouldn't be much good if I did try. I can't give up my own
life--for nobody--not even for you--and however rotten my own life is
I'd rather lead it than some one else's."

He stopped and then went on quietly, as though he were arguing
something out with himself: "The strange thing is that I do feel this
place has got a kind of a hold on me. When you remind me of what I was
like as a kid I go right back and feel helpless as though you could do
anything with me you like. All the same I don't believe in this
business, father--all this Second Coming and the rest of it. We're in
the Twentieth Century now, you know, and everybody knows that that kind
of thing is simply impossible. Only an old maid or two ... Why, I don't
believe you believe in it really, father. That's why you're so keen on
making me believe. But I don't; it's no use. You can't make me. I don't
believe there's any God at all. If there were a God he'd let a fellow
have more free will ..."

He was interrupted by an extraordinary cry. He turned to see his father
standing, one hand pressed back on the chair, his face white, his eyes
black and empty, like sightless eyes.

"Martin! That's blasphemy! ... Take care! Take care! ... Oh, my son, my
son! ..."

Then he suddenly collapsed backwards, crouching on to the chair as
though he were trying to flee from some danger. Martin sprang towards
him. He caught him round the body, holding him to him--something was
leaping like a furious animal inside his father's breast.

"What is it?" he cried, desperately frightened.

"It's my heart," Warlock answered in a voice very soft and distant.
"Bad ... Excitement ... Ring that bell ... Amy ..."

A moment later Amy entered. She came quickly into the room, she said
nothing--only gave Martin one look.

She gave her father something from a little bottle, kneeling in front
of him.

At last she turned to her brother. "You'd better go," she said. "You
can do nothing here."

Miserable, repentant, feeling as though he ha