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There was some cheering as the central party came into view of the enclosures, but it was not very unanimous nor invigorating cheering. They were within fifty yards of the apparatus when Filmer took a hasty glance over his shoulder to measure the distance of the ladies behind them, and decided to make the first remark he had initiated since the house had been left. His voice was just a little hoarse, and he cut in on Banghurst in mid-sentence on Progress.

“I say, Banghurst,” he said, and stopped.

“Yes,” said Banghurst.

“I wish–” He moistened his lips. “I’m not feeling well.”

Banghurst stopped dead. “Eh?” he shouted.

“A queer feeling.” Filmer made to move on, but Banghurst was immovable. “I don’t know. I may be better in a minute. If not–perhaps . . . MacAndrew–“

“You’re not feeling WELL?” said Banghurst, and stared at his white face.

“My dear!” he said, as Mrs. Banghurst came up with them, “Filmer says he isn’t feeling WELL.”

“A little queer,” exclaimed Filmer, avoiding the Lady Mary’s eyes. “It may pass off–“

There was a pause.

It came to Filmer that he was the most isolated person in the world.

“In any case,” said Banghurst, “the ascent must be made. Perhaps if you were to sit down somewhere for a moment–“

“It’s the crowd, I think,” said Filmer.

There was a second pause. Banghurst’s eye rested in scrutiny on Filmer, and then swept the sample of public in the enclosure.

“It’s unfortunate,” said Sir Theodore Hickle; but still–I suppose– Your assistants–Of course, if you feel out of condition and disinclined–“

“I don’t think Mr. Filmer would permit THAT for a moment,” said Lady Mary.

“But if Mr. Filmer’s nerve is run–It might even be dangerous for him to attempt–” Hickle coughed.

“It’s just because it’s dangerous,” began the Lady Mary, and felt she had made her point of view and Filmer’s plain enough.

Conflicting motives struggled for Filmer.

“I feel I ought to go up,” he said, regarding the ground. He looked up and met the Lady Mary’s eyes. “I want to go up,” he said, and smiled whitely at her. He turned towards Banghurst. “If I could just sit down somewhere for a moment out of the crowd and sun–“

Banghurst, at least, was beginning to understand the case. “Come into my little room in the green pavilion,” he said. “It’s quite cool there.” He took Filmer by the arm.

Filmer turned his face to the Lady Mary Elkinghorn again. “I shall be all right in five minutes,” he said. “I’m tremendously sorry–“

The Lady Mary Elkinghorn smiled at him. “I couldn’t think–” he said to Hickle, and obeyed the compulsion of Banghurst’s pull.

The rest remained watching the two recede.

“He is so fragile,” said the Lady Mary.

“He’s certainly a highly nervous type,” said the Dean, whose weakness it was to regard the whole world, except married clergymen with enormous families, as “neurotic.”

“Of course,” said Hickle, “it isn’t absolutely necessary for him to go up because he has invented–“

“How COULD he avoid it?” asked the Lady Mary, with the faintest shadow of scorn.

“It’s certainly most unfortunate if he’s going to be ill now,” said Mrs. Banghurst a little severely.

“He’s not going to be ill,” said the Lady Mary, and certainly she had met Filmer’s eye.

“YOU’LL be all right,” said Banghurst, as they went towards the pavilion. “All you want is a nip of brandy. It ought to be you, you know. You’ll be–you’d get it rough, you know, if you let another man–“

“Oh, I want to go,” said Filmer. “I shall be all right. As a matter of fact I’m almost inclined NOW–. No! I think I’ll have that nip of brandy first.”

Banghurst took him into the little room and routed out an empty decanter. He departed in search of a supply. He was gone perhaps five minutes.

The history of those five minutes cannot be written. At intervals Filmer’s face could be seen by the people on the easternmost of the stands erected for spectators, against the window pane peering out, and then it would recede and fade. Banghurst vanished shouting behind the grand stand, and presently the butler appeared going pavilionward with a tray.