tors of our
bodies? Fallen angels or horrific dust? As for identity or likeness
or personality, we have only our neighbours' nod for them, and just a
fading memory. No, the old fairy tales knew better; and witchcraft's
witchcraft to the end of the chapter. Honestly, and just of course on
that one theory, Lawford, I can't help thinking that Sabathier's raid
only just so far succeeded as to leave his impression in the wax.
It doesn't, of course, follow that it will necessarily end there. It
might--it may be even now just gradually fading away. It may, you know,
need driving out--with whips and scorpions. It might, perhaps, work in.'

Lawford sat cold and still. 'It's no good, no good,' he said, 'I don't
understand; I can't follow you. I was always stupid, always bigoted and
cocksure. These things have never seemed anything but old women's tales
to me. And now I must pay for it. And this Nicholas Sabathier; you say
he was a blackguard?'

'Well,' said Herbert with a faint smile, 'that depends on your
definition of the word. He wasn't a flunkey, a fool, or a prig, if
that's what you mean. He wasn't perhaps on Mrs Grundy's visiting
list. He wasn't exactly gregarious. And yet in a sense that kind of
temperament is so rare that Sappho, Nelson, and Shelley shared it. To
the stodgy, suety world of course it's little else than sheer moonshine,
midsummer madness. Naturally, in its own charming and stodgy way
the world kept flickering cold water in his direction. Naturally it
hissed.... I shall find the book. You shall have the book; oh yes.'

'There's only one more question,' said Lawford in a dull, slow voice,
stooping and covering his face with his hands. 'I know it's impossible
for you to realise--but to me time seems like that water there, to be
heaping up about me. I wait, just as one waits when the conductor of an
orchestra lifts his hand and in a moment the whole surge of brass and
wood, cymbal and drum will crash out--and sweep me under. I can't tell
you Herbert, how it all is, with just these groping stirrings of that
mole in my mind's dark. You say it may be this face, working in! God
knows. I find it easy to speak to you--this cold, clear sense, you know.
The others feel too much, or are afraid, or--Let me think--yes, I
was going to ask you a question. But no one can answer it.' He peered
darkly, with white face suddenly revealed between his hands. 'What
remains now? Where do I come in? What is there left for ME to do?