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He had. I espied afar on the sands a form that was recognizably, by the listless droop of it, his. I was glad and sorry–rather glad, because he completed the scene of last year; and very sorry, because this time we should be at each other’s mercy: no restful silence and liberty for either of us this time. Perhaps he had been told I was here, and had gone out to avoid me while he yet could. Oh weak, weak! Why palter? I put on my hat and coat, and marched out to meet him.

“Influenza, of course?” we asked simultaneously.

There is a limit to the time which one man may spend in talking to another about his own influenza; and presently, as we paced the sands, I felt that Laider had passed this limit. I wondered that he didn’t break off and thank me now for my letter. He must have read it. He ought to have thanked me for it at once. It was a very good letter, a remarkable letter. But surely he wasn’t waiting to answer it by post? His silence about it gave me the absurd sense of having taken a liberty, confound him! He was evidently ill at ease while he talked. But it wasn’t for me to help him out of his difficulty, whatever that might be. It was for him to remove the strain imposed on myself.

Abruptly, after a long pause, he did now manage to say:

“It was–very good of you to–to write me that letter.” He told me he had only just got it, and he drifted away into otiose explanations of this fact. I thought he might at least say it was a remarkable letter; and you can imagine my annoyance when he said, after another interval, “I was very much touched indeed.” I had wished to be convincing, not touching. I can’t bear to be called touching.

“Don’t you,” I asked, “think it IS quite possible that your brain invented all those memories of what–what happened before that accident?”

He drew a sharp sigh.

“You make me feel very guilty.”

“That’s exactly what I tried to make you NOT feel!”

“I know, yes. That’s why I feel so guilty.”

We had paused in our walk. He stood nervously prodding the hard wet sand with his walking-stick.

“In a way,” he said, “your theory was quite right. But–it didn’t go far enough. It’s not only possible, it’s a fact, that I didn’t see those signs in those hands. I never examined those hands. They weren’t there. I wasn’t there. I haven’t an uncle in Hampshire, even. I never had.”

I, too, prodded the sand.

“Well,” I said at length, “I do feel rather a fool.”

“I’ve no right even to beg your pardon, but–”

“Oh, I’m not vexed. Only–I rather wish you hadn’t told me this.”

“I wish I hadn’t had to. It was your kindness, you see, that forced me. By trying to take an imaginary load off my conscience, you laid a very real one on it.”

“I’m sorry. But you, of your own free will, you know, exposed your conscience to me last year. I don’t yet quite understand why you did that.”

“No, of course not. I don’t deserve that you should. But I think you will. May I explain? I’m afraid I’ve talked a great deal already about my influenza, and I sha’n’t be able to keep it out of my explanation. Well, my weakest point–I told you this last year, but it happens to be perfectly true that my weakest point–is my will. Influenza, as you know, fastens unerringly on one’s weakest point. It doesn’t attempt to undermine my imagination. That would be a forlorn hope. I have, alas! a very strong imagination. At ordinary times my imagination allows itself to be governed by my will. My will keeps it in check by constant nagging. But when my will isn’t strong enough even to nag, then my imagination stampedes. I become even as a little child. I tell myself the most preposterous fables, and–the trouble is–I can’t help telling them to my friends. Until I’ve thoroughly shaken off influenza, I’m not fit company for any one. I perfectly realize this, and I have the good sense to go right away till I’m quite well again. I come here usually. It seems absurd, but I must confess I was sorry last year when we fell into conversation. I knew I should very soon be letting myself go, or, rather, very soon be swept away. Perhaps I ought to have warned you; but–I’m a rather shy man. And then you mentioned the subject of palmistry. You said you believed in it. I wondered at that. I had once read Desbarolles’s book about it, but I am bound to say I thought the whole thing very great nonsense indeed.”