to get
something for lunch (my conviction, it appears, was right), and I
thought I might as well take an omnibus to Charing Cross and send a
telegram."

"But when are you going to pack?"

"I did that last night. I didn't get to bed till four this morning. I
only made up my mind after you had gone," she added, in anticipation of
a possible question.

It is better that we are not married. These sudden resolutions would
throw my existence out of gear. My moral upheaval would be that of a hen
in front of a motor-car. When I go abroad, I like at least a fortnight
to think of it. One has to attune one's mind to new conditions, to map
out the pleasant scheme of days, to savour in anticipation the delights
that stand there, awaiting one's tasting, either in the mystery of the
unknown or in the 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 to-day? 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 Self--meanwhile, let us go out somewhere and
dine."

When I got home, I found a card on my hall-table. "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.

CHAPTER III

May 24th.

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 book-lined 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,
a