He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. It was not simply that all the rooms were rearranged and everybody dressed in unusual fashions, and all the routines of life abolished and put away: people’s tempers and emotions also seemed strangely disturbed and shifted about. “Have either of you been out of this room since you discovered what had happened?” he asked. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. So was I, in fact. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. Go back at once, please. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn.
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