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123 lay motionless on his back with his eyes closed. His breathing seemed to me short and heavy.

At last Starkie came. It was all right: Mr. Brooke might go to the hospital.

Just before he went downstairs, he asked Mr. Starkie to leave us alone for a moment. I stood by the large wardrobe mirror, with a certain feeling of almost shame, making me wish to avert my eyes from his face. He came to me—put one hand on to my shoulder in his old way, smiling, and said: 'Well, Starkie knows all about the Book, too. It is to be brought out soon after my death, and you are to be joint editor with him.'

'I, sir? I know nothing about Africa; nothing even of literary matters. How shall I?' 'I wish it so. You will not refuse me this?' 'But, sir, I am so young.'

'People will laugh. Is that it?'

'What people do or do not do, is nothing to me.'

'You say it with lots of emphasis. Very well.—Then you accept?'

'Yes, sir.—But I hope that neither Mr. Starkie nor I may ever have to touch your book. You may recover.'

He smiled again; less sadly than before, it seemed to me.

'No, no, that is not to be! God has laid his hand upon me; and I am to pay the penalty of my sin. It is just.—May His will be done in all things!'

I answered nothing.

He sighed; let fall his hand from my shoulder listlessly; turned, and was moving to the door. I followed him and touched his arm:

'You have not said good-bye to me, sir,' I said.

I passed in front of him. He raised a hand to either shoulder, feeling up my right sleeve, but not the other: then bent his face forward towards mine, murmuring: 'My eyes are a little weak. I too am a little weak—a little feeble. That is tautological—eh?… I did not say good-bye to you? That was careless of me. You were in my thoughts—in the thoughts behind my thoughts, Bertram.—Good-bye, boy,