Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (11 page)

'Hie
next
Thursday
I
went
again
to
Richmond—I
suppose
I
was one
of
the
Time
Traveller's
most
constant
guests—and
arriving
late, found
four
or
five
men
already
assembled
in
his
drawing-room.
The Medical
Man
was
standing
before
the
fire
with
a
sheet
of
paper
in
one hand
and
his
watch
in
the
other.
I
looked
round
for
the
Time Traveller,
and—"It's
half-past
seven
now,"
said
the
Medical
Man. "I
suppose
we'd
better
have
dinner?"

"Where's
-----
?"
said
I,
naming
our
host.

"You've
just
come?
It's
rather
odd.
He's
unavoidably
detained.
He asks
me
in
this
note
to
lead
off
with
dinner
at
seven
if
he's
not
back. Says
he'll
explain
when
he
comes."

"It
seems
a
pity
to
let
the
dinner
spoil,"
said
the
Editor
of
a
well-known
daily
paper;
and
thereupon
the
Doctor
rang
the
bell.

The
Psychologist
was
the
only
person
besides
the
Doctor
and myself
who
had
attended
the
previous
dinner.
The
other
men
were Blank,
the
Editor
afore-mentioned,
a
certain
journalist,
and
another —a
quiet,
shy
man
with
a
beard—whom
I
didn't
know,
and
who,
as far
as
my
observation
went,
never
opened
his
mouth
all
the
evening. There
was
some
speculation
at
the
dinner
table
about
the
Time Traveller's
absence,
and
I
suggested
time
travelling,
in
a
half-jocular spirit.
The
Editor
wanted
that
explained
to
him,
and
the
Psychologist volunteered
a
wooden
account
of
the
"ingenious
paradox
and
trick" we
had
witnessed
that
day
week.
He
was
in
the
midst
of
his
exposition when
the
door
from
the
corridor
opened
slowly
and
without
noise.
I was
facing
the
door,
and
saw
it
first.
"Hallo!"
I
said.
"At
last!"
And the
door
opened
wider,
and
the
Time
Traveller
stood
before
us.
I gave
a
cry
of
surprise.
"Good
heavens!
man,
what's
the
matter?"
cried the
Medical
Man,
who
saw
him
next.
And
the
whole
tableful
turned towards
the
door.

He
was
in
an
amazing
plight.
His
coat
was
dusty
and
dirty
and smeared
with
green
down
the
sleeves;
his
hair
disordered,
and
as
it seemed
to
me
greyer—either
with
dust
and
dirt
or
because
its
colour had
actually
faded.
His
face
was
ghastly
pale;
his
chin
had
a
brown cut
on
it—a
cut
half
healed;
his
expression
was
haggard
and
drawn, as
by
intense
suffering.
For
a
moment
he
hesitated
in
the
doorway, as
if
he
had
been
dazzled
by
the
light.
Then
he
came
into
the
room. He
walked
with
just
such
a
limp
as
I
have
seen
in
footsore
tramps. We
stared
at
him
in
silence,
expecting
him
to
speak.

He
said
not
a
word,
but
came
painfully
to
the
table,
and
made a
motion
towards
the
wine.
The
Editor
filled
a
glass
with
champagne, and
pushed
it
towards
him.
He
drained
it,
and
it
seemed
to
do
him good:
for
he
looked
round
the
table,
and
the
ghost
of
his
old
smile flickered
across
his
face.
"What
on
earth
have
you
been
up
to,
man?" said
the
Doctor.
The
Time
Traveller
did
not
seem
to
hear.
"Don't let
me
disturb
you,"
he
said,
with
a
certain
faltering
articulation.
"I'm all
right."
He
stopped,
held
out
his
glass
for
more,
and
took
it
off
at
a
draught. "That's good," he said.
His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came into his cheeks. His glance
flickered over our faces with a certain dull approval, and then went round the
warm and comfortable room. Then he spoke again, still as it were feeling his
way among his words. "I'm going to wash and dress, and then I'll come down
and explain things. . . . Save me some of that mutton. I'm starving for a bit
of meat."