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Chapter 7

           Iwassimplywearyofthesightofmyownadvertizedname.Icertainlydidlookforwardwithverygenuinefeelingandexpectationtothepublicationofmyworkwhenthatshouldbeanaccomplishedfact—butto-dayeventhatideahadlostsomeofitsattractivenessowingtothisnewandunpleasantimpressiononmymindthatthecontentsofthatbookwereasutterlythereverseofmyowntruethoughtsastheycouldwellbe.Afogbegantodarkendownoverthestreetsincompanywiththerain—anddisgustedwiththeweatherandwithmyself,Iturnedawayfromthewindowandsettledintoanarm-chairbythefire,pokingthecoaltillitblazed,andwonderingwhatIshoulddotoridmymindofthegloomthatthreatenedtoenvelopitinasthickacanopyasthatoftheLondonfog.Atapcameatthedoor,andinanswertomysomewhatirritable"Comein!"Rimânezentered.

           "What,allinthedarkTempest!"heexclaimedcheerfully—"Whydon’tyoulightup?"

           "Thefire’senough,"—Iansweredcrossly—"Enoughatanyratetothinkby."

           "Andhaveyoubeenthinking?"heinquiredlaughing—"Don’tdoit.It’sabadhabit.Noonethinksnow-a-days—peoplecan’tstandit—theirheadsaretoofrail.Oncebegintothinkanddowngothefoundationsofsociety—besidesthinkingisalwaysdullwork."

           "Ihavefounditso,"Isaidgloomily—"Lucio,thereissomethingwrongaboutmesomewhere."

           Hiseyesflashedkeen,half-amusedinquiryintomine.

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