felt real fear: fear of something he did not
comprehend, of a situation he could not master, of an adversary as
strong as Fate. By a word something had been snatched from him that he
now knew was as dear to him as life, that was life, that was what made
it worth continuing. And he could do nothing to prevent it; he could
not help himself. He was as impotent as the prisoner who hears the
judge banish him into exile. He tried to adjust his mind to the
calamity. But his mind refused. As easily as with his finger a man
can block the swing of a pendulum and halt the progress of the clock,
Harris with a word had brought the entire world to a full stop.

And then, above his head, Hemingway heard the lazy whisper of the
punka, and from the harbor the raucous whistle of the Crown Prince
Eitel, signalling her entrance. The world had not stopped; for the
punka-boy, for the captain of the German steamer, for Harris seated
with face averted, the world was still going gayly and busily forward.
Only for him had it stopped.

In spite of the confident tone in which Harris had spoken, in spite of
the fact that unless he knew it was the truth, he would not have
spoken, Hemingway tried to urge himself to believe there had been some
hideous, absurd error. But in answer came back to him snatches of talk
or phrases the girl had last addressed to him: "You can command the
future, but you cannot change the past. I cannot marry you, or any
one! I am not free!"

And then to comfort himself, he called up the look he had surprised in
her eyes when he stood holding her hands in his. He clung to it, as a
drowning man will clutch even at a piece of floating seaweed.

When he tried to speak he found his voice choked and stifled, and that
his distress was evident, he knew from the pity he read in the eyes of
Harris.

In a voice strange to him, he heard himself saying: "Why do you think
that? You've got to tell me. I have a right to know. This morning I
asked Mrs. Adair to marry me."

The consul exclaimed with dismay and squirmed unhappily. "I didn't
know," he protested. "I thought I was in time. I ought to have told
you days ago, but--"

"Tell me now," commanded Hemingway.

"I know it in a thousand ways," began Harris.

Hemingway raised his eyes hopefully.

But the consul shook his head. "But to convince you," he went on, "I
need tell you only one. The thousand other proofs are looks they have
exchanged, sentences I have c