I am a man who believes in impulses.  I made what was perhaps a rash proposition.  But you must remember, that I had been alone, play-writing in Lympne, for fourteen days, and my compunction for his ruined walk still hung about me.  “Why not,” said I, “make this your new habit?  In the place of the one I spoilt?  At least, until we can settle about the bungalow.  What you want is to turn over your work in your mind.  That you have always done during your afternoon walk.  Unfortunately that’s over—­you can’t get things back as they were.  But why not come and talk about your work to me; use me as a sort of wall against which you may throw your thoughts and catch them again?  It’s certain I don’t know enough to steal your ideas myself—­and I know no scientific men—­”

I stopped.  He was considering.  Evidently the thing, attracted him.  “But I’m afraid I should bore you,” he said.

“You think I’m too dull?”

“Oh, no; but technicalities—­”

“Anyhow, you’ve interested me immensely this afternoon.”

“Of course it would be a great help to me.  Nothing clears up one’s ideas so much as explaining them.  Hitherto—­”

“My dear sir, say no more.”

“But really can you spare the time?”

“There is no rest like change of occupation,” I said, with profound conviction.

The affair was over.  On my verandah steps he turned.  “I am already greatly indebted to you,” he said.

I made an interrogative noise.

“You have completely cured me of that ridiculous habit of humming,” he explained.

I think I said I was glad to be of any service to him, and he turned away.

Immediately the train of thought that our conversation had suggested must have resumed its sway.  His arms began to wave in their former fashion.  The faint echo of “zuzzoo” came back to me on the breeze....

Well, after all, that was not my affair....

He came the next day, and again the next day after that, and delivered two lectures on physics to our mutual satisfaction.  He talked with an air of being extremely lucid about the “ether” and “tubes of force,” and “gravitational potential,” and things like that, and I sat in my other folding-chair and said, “Yes,” “Go on,” “I follow you,” to keep him going.  It was tremendously difficult stuff, but I do not think he ever suspected how much I did not understand him.  There were moments when I doubted whether I was well employed, but at any rate I was resting from that confounded play.  Now and then things gleamed on me clearly for a space, only to vanish just when I thought I had hold of them.  Sometimes my attention failed altogether, and I would give it up and sit and stare at him, wondering whether, after all, it would not be better to use him as a central figure in a good farce and let all this other stuff slide.  And then, perhaps, I would catch on again for a bit.