swash had been on the glass when he turned out his lamp, he had left his phrase unfinished and his papers lying quite as if for the flood to bear them away on its bosom. But there still, on the table, were the bare bones of the sentence—and not all of those; the single thing borne away and that he could never recover was the missing half that might have paired with it and begotten a figure.
Yet he could at last only turn back from the window; the world was everywhere, without and within, and, with the great staring egotism of its health and strength, was not to be trusted for tact or delicacy. He faced about precisely to meet his servant and the absurd solemnity of two telegrams on a tray. Brown ought to have kicked them into the room—then he himself might have kicked them out.
'And you told me to remind you, sir———'
George Dane was at last angry. 'Remind me of nothing!'
'But you insisted, sir, that I was to insist!'
He turned away in despair, speaking with a pathetic quaver at absurd variance with his words: 'If you insist, Brown, I'll kill you!' He found himself anew at the window, whence, looking down from his fourth floor, he could see the vast neighbourhood, under the trumpet-blare of the sky, beginning to rush about. There was a silence, but he knew Brown had not left him—knew exactly how straight and serious and stupid and faithful he stood there. After a minute he heard him again.
'It's only because, sir, you know, sir, you can't remember———'
At this Dane did flash round; it was more than at such a moment he could bear. 'Can't remember, Brown? I can't forget. That's what's the matter with me.'
Brown looked at him with the advantage of eighteen years of consistency. 'I'm afraid you're not well, sir.'
Brown's master thought. 'It's a shocking thing to say, but I wish to Heaven I weren't! It would be perhaps an excuse.'
