He was thinking of the day of that field-meet in the Santa Clara valley. He had been a distance runner of sorts, a bit too fine physically—a little cough in the throat that had stuck until he came to China, but a superb bit of health compared to the red panting animal he had become in the past nine months.... His throat was cooled; his whole nerve-system had leaped to the stimulant which Ti Kung had ordered. Romney laughed. He wouldn’t even have been able to think as coherently as this, but for the two recent drinks. It was a deep ironical laugh from somewhere within, possibly from the soul of things.... Running—and a victory had thrilled him. Cheap things to thrill over. He hadn’t asked much in those days. Now he was an inflamed pig, half-bearded, in soiled white clothing that he could get the smell of.... He had sincerely tried to arrive at the end of himself, but he had put on a belated kind of toughness in the years of Asia. He wondered if he would go on trying, or square about and regain something of his old form—form of mind as well as form of body, his old form among men. Romney looked up at Ti Kung and laughed again. This very thought of rehabilitation was not from the wreck that he felt himself to have become, but from the fresh warmth of alcohol.... No, he had done his living. If he got well enough to think connectedly for any length of time, a certain two weeks would rush back and make a monkey of him. No, this was a false note—this idea of regaining form. He didn’t want form among men. Nothing would be interesting. The Immortal had spoiled all the rest. Even China would bore him. And she was gone—on her own blessed highway. It had seemed good to put an end to himself out of extreme boredom of days, but he hadn’t counted on being tough as blacksnake.... He would be kicked and trampled around Asia a little longer until something broke—something that had been so perversely strong inside of him. He looked to find Dr. Ti Kung smiling contentedly and without haste. The Chinese had understood the laugh. It was remarkable how this little yellow man understood. It had been the same, many years ago. They had all commented upon it. They had always found Ti Kung on the dot, without haste, without raising his voice. It was so now.... Why had he stopped to pick up a ruffian white man on the street? Romney felt himself leaning on the other. He hated it, but didn’t lie to himself about it.... His hand crept to his face—one clean side, one hairy one. It was like him. He swallowed the shame of it. "Well," he said, "what are we going to do about all this?" "I will tell you in three days," said Dr. Ti Kung.