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was nothing; only when the mist lifted, as it were, for a time, there appeared the pattern which was painted on the walls, the carved cornice of a cupboard, the top of the curtains or the frieze on the ceiling. Or somebody's face bent over him as if over the mouth of a well; but its features were not to be discerned. Things were happening, somebody from time to time moistened his hot lips or raised his helpless body, but everything disappeared in snatches of dreaming which continued to drift away from him. And there were landscapes, patterns of carpets, differential calculations, balls of fire, chemical formule. From time to time something rose to the surface and took the form for a moment of a clearer dream, but immediately afterwards it dissolved again into the wide current of unconsciousness.

Finally there came moments when he awoke fully. Then he saw above him the warm ceiling with its stucco pattern; his eyes lighted on his own thin, deathly white hands, resting on the coloured coverlet. Beyond there appeared the frame of the bed, the cupboard and a white door; everything somehow pleasant, quiet and already familiar. He had not a notion where he was. He wanted to consider this problem; but his head was hopelessly weak. Everything began to grow confused again and he