The weeks that followed seemed as many months. I was alone with Boyde in a filthy, verminous room, food and money scarce, rent owing, Kay away, clothes negligible, my single asset being a job. I lost that job owing to illness that kept me for weeks in bed--in that bed.... And as “she went” I had the curious feeling that someone watched her going, someone other than myself. It was an odd obsession. Someone looked on and smiled. Certain practices, gathered from my “Eastern” reading, were no doubt responsible for this uncanny feeling, for with it ran also a parallel idea: that only a portion of my being suffered while another portion, untouched, serene and confident, accepting all that came with a kind of indifferent resignation, stood entirely apart, playing, equally, the rôle of a spectator. This detached spectator watched “her going” with close attention, even with something of satisfaction. “Take it all,” was its attitude; “avoid nothing; it is your due; for it is merely reaping what you sowed long ago. Face it to the very dregs. Only in this way shall you pay a just debt and exhaust it.” So vital was this attitude in all that followed that it must be honestly mentioned. A stabbing in the side had been bothering me for some days, making walking difficult and painful. A blow received while diving from our island--I hit a rock--began to ache and throb. I came home in the evenings, weary to the bone. There were headaches, and a touch of fever. The pain increased. There was a swelling. I went to bed. Boyde took down a letter to McCloy, asking for a day off, which was granted. The next day I turned up at 8.30, but had to come back to bed after the midday coffee and sinkers. “See a doctor,” snapped McCloy, in his best maxim-firing manner, “and come back when you’re fixed up again.”