I used to write Tony letters telling him about his grandfather and what he advised him to do, but Tony would not take any of the suggestions.
The one I thought was Tony's grandfather I called Christopher.
He was a funny little old man, cynical and irritable.
He was anxious to see Tony and asked me when he would be coming to see me.
And when Tony did come, and after staying long enough to ask about my queer doings and to laugh at them, had gone home again, I found myself—as Christopher—shaking my head from side to side and quietly crying.
"What's the matter, Christopher?" I asked.
But the old head still wagged and the tears came.
With difficulty I got it from him.
"He doesn't know me," he said. "He doesn't know me."
CHAPTER X.
ILLNESS AND WEARINESS, DELUSIONS OR WHAT?
Then I became so ill that I could hardly drag myself about. I had given up some of my work, writing to say that I did not feel equal to it.
By this time I was whispering all day long in my rooms as if talking to some unseen person thinking he was Tony, who always seemed to be there though I knew he was far away.
I can't quite remember when it was that I found my lips being moved to say things that I felt were being said—Yes I do—it was first when that night I found myself saying, "I'll do it—I'll do it! I'll do, do, do it." etc. What he meant to do and why he meant to do it I don't know but he seemed to be making up his mind decidedly.
I fancied all the time it was Tony I was talking to, though it was proved when he came back that it had not been he at all.
By that time I must have seemed extraordinary to any person looking on—I moved slowly and was made conscious always that I was being overlooked and criticised by others. I felt vague about everything, spoke to and was answered by Tony who was travelling with a Mr. Hughes, who did not seem to believe in me.
The first time I was conscious of this was when I was
