“If I might advise you,” said Hilary, “I would get back into bed for a few minutes.  You seem a little chilly.”

Mr. Stone, who was indeed shaking so that he could hardly stand, allowed Hilary to assist him into bed and tuck the blankets round him.

“I must be at work by ten o’clock,” he said.

Hilary, who was also shivering, hastened to Bianca’s room.  She was just coming down, and exclaimed at seeing him all wet.  When he had told her of the episode she touched his shoulder.

“What about you?”

“A hot bath and drink will set me right.  You’d better go to him.”

He turned towards the bathroom, where Miranda stood, lifting a white foot.  Compressing her lips, Bianca ran downstairs.  Startled by his tale, she would have taken his wet body in her arms; if the ghosts of innumerable moments had not stood between.  So this moment passed too, and itself became a ghost.

Mr. Stone, greatly to his disgust, had not succeeded in resuming work at ten o’clock.  Failing simply because he could not stand on his legs, he had announced his intention of waiting until half-past three, when he should get up, in preparation for the coming of the little girl.  Having refused to see a doctor, or have his temperature taken, it was impossible to tell precisely what degree of fever he was in.  In his cheeks, just visible over the blankets, there was more colour than there should have been; and his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, shone with suspicious brilliancy.  To the dismay of Bianca—­who sat as far out of sight as possible, lest he should see her, and fancy that she was doing him a service—­he pursued his thoughts aloud: 

“Words—­words—­they have taken away brotherhood!” Bianca shuddered, listening to that uncanny sound. “’In those days of words they called it death—­pale death—­mors pallida.  They saw that word like a gigantic granite block suspended over them, and slowly coming down.  Some, turning up their faces at the sight, trembled painfully, awaiting their obliteration.  Others, unable, while they still lived, to face the thought of nothingness, inflated by some spiritual wind, and thinking always of their individual forms, called out unceasingly that those selves of theirs would and must survive this word—­that in some fashion, which no man could understand, each self-conscious entity reaccumulated after distribution.  Drunk with this thought, these, too, passed away.  Some waited for it with grim, dry eyes, remarking that the process was molecular, and thus they also met their so-called death.’”

His voice ceased, and in place of it rose the sound of his tongue moistening his palate.  Bianca, from behind, placed a glass of barley-water to his lips.  He drank it with a slow, clucking noise; then, seeing that a hand held the glass, said:  “Is that you?  Are you ready for me?  Follow.  ’In those days no one leaped up to meet pale riding Death; no one saw in her face that she was brotherhood incarnate; no one with a heart as light as gossamer kissed her feet, and, smiling, passed into the Universe.’” His voice died away, and when next he spoke it was in a quick, husky whisper:  “I must—­I must—­I must—–­” There was silence; then he added:  “Give me my trousers.”