‘He’s only--tired.’ I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched forward against the table, exactly as when last I had seen him. It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be fruitless--that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right was horribly clear from the look of him. But ‘Don’t be discouraged,’ I falteringly said. ‘Perhaps it’s only that you--didn’t leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--’ ‘Yes,’ his voice came. ‘I’ve thought of that.’ ‘And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don’t go on to Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He’d never think of looking for you in Calais.’ ‘It’s like my luck,’ he said, ‘to spend my last hours on earth with an ass.’ But I was not offended. ‘And a treacherous ass,’ he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside. ‘Come, Soames! pull yourself together! This isn’t a mere matter of life and death. It’s a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don’t mean to say you’re going to wait limply here till the Devil comes to fetch you?’ ‘I can’t do anything else. I’ve no choice.’ ‘Come! This is “trusting and encouraging” with a vengeance! This is Diabolism run mad!’ I filled his glass with wine. ‘Surely, now that you’ve SEEN the brute--’ ‘It’s no good abusing him.’ ‘You must admit there’s nothing Miltonic about him, Soames.’ ‘I don’t say he’s not rather different from what I expected.’ ‘He’s a vulgarian, he’s a swell-mobsman, he’s the sort of man who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies’ jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!’ ‘You don’t suppose I look forward to it, do you?’ ‘Then why not slip quietly out of the way?’ Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable waiting. I told Soames that for the honour of the human race he ought to make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever done for him. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘can’t you understand that I’m in his power? You saw him touch me, didn’t you? There’s an end of it. I’ve no will. I’m sealed.’