Lindsay became feverishly active. Eyes down, he mechanically shuffled his papers. He collected yesterday's written manuscript, brought the edges down on the table in successive clicks, until they made an even, rectangular pile. He laid his pencils out in a row. He changed the point in his penholder. He moved the ink-bottle. But this availed his spirit nothing. "I am incredibly stupid," he said aloud. His voice was low, but it rang as hollowly as though he were from another world. "If you could only speak to me. Can't you speak to me?" He did not raise his eyes. But he waited for a long interval, during which the silence in the room became so heavy and cold that it almost blotted out the sunlight. "But have patience with me. I want to serve you. Oh, you don't know how I want to serve you. I give you my word, I'll get it sometime and I think not too late. I'll kill myself if I don't. I'm putting all I am and all I have into trying to understand. Don't give me up. It's only because I'm flesh and blood." He stopped and raised his eyes. The room was empty. That afternoon Lindsay took a walk so long, so devil-driven that he came back streaming perspiration from every pore. Mrs. Spash regarded him with a glance in which disapproval struggled with sympathy. "I don't know as you'd ought to wear yourself out like that, Mr. Lindsay. Later, perhaps you'll need all your strength--" "Very likely you're right, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay agreed. "But I've been trying to work it out." Mrs. Spash left as usual at about seven. By nine, the last remnant of the long twilight, a collaboration of midsummer with daylight-saving, had disappeared. Lindsay lighted his lamp and sat down with Lutetia's poems. The room was peculiarly cheerful. The beautiful Murray sideboard, recently discovered and recovered, held its accustomed place between the two windows. The old Murray clock, a little ship swinging back and forth above its brass face, ticked in the corner. The old whale-oil lamps had resumed their stand, one at either end of the mantel. Old pieces, old though not Lutetia's--they were gone irretrievably--bits picked up here and there, made the deep sea-shell corner cabinet brilliant with the color of old china, glimmery with the shine of old pewter, sparkly with the glitter of old glass. Many chairs--windsors, comb-backs, a Boston rocker--filled the empty spaces with an old-time flavor. In traditional places, high old glasses held flowers. The single anachronism was the big, nickel, green-shaded student lamp.