ir monotonous activity
especially on his hearing. Extraordinary recollections swept him. He
remembered having heard an old nurse, Sarah Teale, describe how her aunt
once rushed out the back door right in the midst of frying doughnuts,
and was instantly stricken with paralysis on account of it. There was
a low groaning; a moan floated to him from somewhere above. Bravely he
forced himself to climb the stairs toward it. He turned the knob. The
door stuck. He shook it again, and it yielded.

II

It was nearly dark when he awoke. A late, a very late, an unnaturally
late, afternoon dusk shadowed in streaks across the floor. He could
hardly breathe. The windows were close shut. The striped shades were
drawn down to the sills. But he could see the yellowed print of Da
Vinci's "Last Supper"--the one he had bought at Milan--hanging on the
panel above the empty hearth. There was the sand-shaker on his maple
desk. That old lithograph of the two kittens over beside the bureau was
crooked. He must remember to straighten it. The wall-paper was getting
dingy.

He stretched himself. A sharp pain was going through his head. But it
was late; he must get up and dress, or he wouldn't be ready in time.

The clothes he had just taken off lay across an arm of the painted
chair by his bed. He lifted the coat, and let it fall from his grasp.
He moved over to the wash-stand. The Chinese pitcher was as light as
if filled with air when he turned its nose to the basin. The hat-tub
stood on end between the wash-stand and the closet door. He reached
for the battered old red tassel of the bell-rope and pulled it. It
was so late,--it was getting later,--he must hurry, whether Simpkins
came or not. He could manage. And he opened the closet door, sighing
at the bothersome prospect of getting into his togs. He ran his hand
over his hair. Where was the mirror? And, damme! he had no light!

The shoes were a trifle hard to draw on, too small for him; the
breeches were badly in need of pressing; the coat was stiff. He began
opening drawers in the bureau, delving through piles of neatly folded
linen and silk. At last he chose a shirt and put it on over his head.
He laid aside the purple satin waistcoat until he should have arranged
his stock, which he found tight, and difficult to make meet in the back.
But he finally got it adjusted; he brought the thick, wide ends around
in front, tied them in a huge bow while he walked over to the window
and gazed o