everything seems possible. I can even
see myself back at Clematis Villa, walking with Ellen, listening to the
band, leaning over the bar of the Golden Lion. Listen!"

He stopped short. A barrel organ outside was playing a music hall
ditty. His head kept time to the music.

"I wish I had my banjo!" he exclaimed, impulsively. Then he shivered.
"Did you hear that? A banjo! I used to play it, you know."

Mr. Waddington looked shocked.

"The banjo!" he repeated. "Do you really mean that you want to play it
at the present moment?"

"I do," Burton replied. "If I had it with me now, I should play that
tune. I should play others like it. Everything seems to be slipping
away from me. I can smell the supper cooking in my little kitchen at
Clematis Villa. Delicious! My God, I can't bear it any longer! Here
goes!"

He took a bean from his pocket with trembling fingers and swallowed it.
Then he leaned back in his chair for several moments with closed eyes.
When he opened them again, an expression of intense relief was upon his
face.

"I am coming back already," he declared faintly. "Thank Heavens! Mr.
Waddington, your room is charming, sir. Japanese prints, too! I had no
idea that you were interested in them. That third one is exquisite.
And what a dado!"

"Hewlings himself designed it for me," Mr. Waddington observed, with
satisfaction. "There are several things I should like you to notice,
Burton. That lacquer-work box!"

Burton was already holding it in his fingers and was gazing at it
lovingly.

"It is perfect," he admitted. "What workmanship! You are indeed
fortunate, Mr. Waddington. And isn't that Mona Lisa on the walls?
What a beautiful reproduction! I am saving up money even now to go to
Paris to see the original. Only a few nights ago I was reading Pater's
appreciation of it."

He rose and wandered around the room, making murmured comments all the
time. Presently he came back to the table and glanced down at the
sheets of manuscript.

"Mr. Waddington," he said, "let me take these to my friend. I feel
that the last few hours must have been a sort of nightmare, and yet--"

He drew out a little box from his waistcoat pocket and peered inside.
He was suddenly grave.

"It was no nightmare, then," he muttered. "I have really taken a bean."

"You took it not a quarter of an hour ago," Mr. Waddington told him.

Burton sighed.

"It is awful to imagine that I should have needed it," he confessed.
"There must be