incorporeity and the extramundane.  Yet this problem, to your eyes, I fear, not essentially novel or peculiarly involute, holds for my contemplative faculties an extraordinary fascination, to wit:  wherein does the mind, in itself a muscle, escape from the laws of the physical, and wherein and wherefore do the laws of the physical exercise so inexorable a jurisdiction over the processes of the mind, so that a disorder of the visual nerve actually distorts the asomatous and veils the pneumatoscopic?

“Your pardon, dear Loughburne, for these lapses from the general to the particular, but in a lighter moment of idleness, I pray you give some careless thought to a problem now painfully my own, though rooted inevitably so deeply in the dirt of the commonplace.

“But you have asked me in letter of recent date for the particular physical aspects of my present environment, and though (as you so well know) it is my conviction that the physical fact is not and only the immaterial is, yet I shall gladly look about me—­a thing I have not yet seen occasion to do—­and describe to you the details of my present condition.”

Accordingly, at this point Randall Byrne removed from his nose his thick glasses and holding them poised he stared through the window at the view without.  He had quite changed his appearance by removing the spectacles, for the owlish touch was gone and he seemed at a stroke ten years younger.  It was such a face as one is glad to examine in detail, lean, pale, the transparent skin stretched tightly over cheekbones, nose, and chin.  That chin was built on good fighting lines, though somewhat over-delicate in substance and the mouth quite colourless, but oddly enough the upper lip had that habitual appearance of stiff compression which is characteristic of highly strung temperaments; it is a noticeable feature of nearly every great actor, for instance.  The nose was straight and very thin and in a strong sidelight a tracery of the red blood showed through at the nostrils.  The eyes were deeply buried and the lower lids bruised with purple—­weak eyes that blinked at a change of light or a sudden thought—­distant eyes which missed the design of wall paper and saw the trees growing on the mountains.  The forehead was Byrne’s most noticeable feature, pyramidal, swelling largely towards the top and divided in the centre into two distinct lobes by a single marked furrow which gave his expression a hint of the wistful.  Looking at that forehead one was strangely conscious of the brain beneath.  There seemed no bony structure; the mind, undefended, was growing and pushing the confining walls further out.

And the fragility which the head suggested the body confirmed, for he was not framed to labor.  The burden of the noble head had bowed the slender throat and crooked the shoulders, and when he moved his arm it seemed the arm of a skeleton too loosely clad.  There was a differing connotation in the hands, to be sure.  They were thin—­bones and sinews chiefly, with the violet of the veins showing along the backs; but they were active hands without tremor—­hands ideal for the accurate scalpel, where a fractional error means death to the helpless.