Roundabout Papers

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"Noblest and best of women!" said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper with
much reverence. "My good Mr. Roundabout, I suppose you do not question
THAT signature?"

Indeed, the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., is known to be one of
the richest in Europe, and as for the Countess Rachel, she was known to
be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment. There was
only one little difficulty, THE COUNTESS RACHEL DIED LAST OCTOBER.

I pointed out this circumstance, and tossed over the paper to Pinto with
a sneer.

"C'est a brendre ou a laisser," he said with some heat. "You literary
men are all imbrudent; but I did not tink you such a fool wie dis. Your
box is not worth twenty pound, and I offer you a tausend because I know
you want money to pay dat rascal Tom's college bills." (This strange man
actually knew that my scapegrace Tom has been a source of great expense
and annoyance to me.) "You see money costs me nothing, and you refuse
to take it! Once, twice; will you take this check in exchange for your
trumpery snuff-box?"

What could I do? My poor granny's legacy was valuable and dear to me,
but after all a thousand guineas are not to be had every day. "Be it a
bargain," said I. "Shall we have a glass of wine on it?" says Pinto; and
to this proposal I also unwillingly acceded, reminding him, by the way,
that he had not yet told me the story of the headless man.


"Your poor gr-ndm-ther was right just now, when she said she was not my
first love. 'Twas one of those banale expressions" (here Mr. P. blushed
once more) "which we use to women. We tell each she is our first
passion. They reply with a similar illusory formula. No man is any
woman's first love; no woman any man's. We are in love in our nurse's
arms, and women coquette with their eyes before their tongue can form a
word. How could your lovely relative love me? I was far, far too old for
her. I am older than I look. I am so old that you would not believe my
age were I to tell you. I have loved many and many a woman before your
relative. It has not always been fortunate for them to love me. Ah,
Sophronia! Round the dreadful circus where you fell, and whence I was
dragged corpse-like by the heels, there sat multitudes more savage than
the lions which mangled your sweet form! Ah, tenez! when we marched to
the terrible stake together at Valladolid--the Protestant and the J--
But away with memory! Boy! it was happy for thy grandam that she loved
me not.

"During that strange period," he went on, "when the teeming Time was
great with the revolution that was speedily to be born, I was on a
mission in Paris with my excellent, my maligned friend Cagliostro.
Mesmer was one of our band. I seemed to occupy but an obscure rank in
it: though, as you know, in secret societies the humble man may be a
chief and director--the ostensible leader but a puppet moved by unseen
hands. Never mind who was chief, or who was second. Never mind my age.
It boots not to tell it: why shall I expose myself to your scornful
incredulity--or reply to your questions in words that are familiar to
you, but which yet you cannot understand? Words are symbols of things
which you know, or of things which you don't know. If you don't know
them, to speak is idle." (Here I confess Mr. P. spoke for exactly
thirty-eight minutes, about physics, metaphysics, language, the origin
and destiny of man, during which time I was rather bored, and, to
relieve my ennui, drank a half glass or so of wine.) "LOVE, friend, is
the fountain of youth! It may not happen to me once--once in an age:
but when I love, then I am young. I loved when I was in Paris. Bathilde,
Bathilde, I loved thee--ah, how fondly! Wine, I say, more wine! Love is
ever young. I was a boy at the little feet of Bathilde de Bechamel--the
fair, the fond, the fickle, ah, the false!" The strange old man's agony
was here really terrific, and he showed himself much more agitated than
he had been when speaking about my gr-ndm-th-r.

"I thought Blanche might love me. I could speak to her in the language
of all countries, and tell her the lore of all ages. I could trace the
nursery legends which she loved up to their Sanscrit source, and whisper
to her the darkling mysteries of Egyptian Magi. I could chant for her
the wild chorus that rang in the dishevelled Eleusinian revel: I could
tell her and I would, the watchword never known but to one woman, the
Saban Queen, which Hiram breathed in the abysmal ear of Solomon--You
don't attend. Psha! you have drunk too much wine!" Perhaps I may as
well own that I was NOT attending, for he had been carrying on for about
fifty-seven minutes; and I don't like a man to have ALL the talk to
himself.

"Blanche de Bechamel was wild, then, about this secret of Masonry. In
early, early days I loved, I married a girl fair as Blanche, who, too,
was tormented by curiosity, who, too, would peep into my closet--into
the only secret I guarded from her. A dreadful fate befell poor Fatima.
An ACCIDENT shortened her life. Poor thing! she had a foolish sister who
urged her on. I always told her to beware of Ann. She died. They said
her brothers killed me. A gross falsehood. AM I dead? If I were, could I
pledge you in this wine?"

"Was your name," I asked, quite bewildered, "was your name, pray, then,
ever Blueb----?"

"Hush! the waiter will overhear you. Methought we were speaking of
Blanche de Bechamel. I loved her, young man. My pearls, and diamonds,
and treasure, my wit, my wisdom, my passion, I flung them all into
the child's lap. I was a fool. Was strong Samson not as weak as I? Was
Solomon the Wise much better when Balkis wheedled him. I said to the
king--But enough of that, I spake of Blanche de Bechamel.

"Curiosity was the poor child's foible. I could see, as I talked to her.
that her thoughts were elsewhere (as yours, my friend, have been absent
once or twice to-night). To know the secret of Masonry was the wretched
child's mad desire. With a thousand wiles, smiles, caresses, she strove
to coax it from me--from ME--ha! ha!

"I had an apprentice--the son of a dear friend, who died by my side at
Rossbach, when Soubise, with whose army I happened to be, suffered a
dreadful defeat for neglecting my advice. The young Chevalier Goby de
Mouchy was glad enough to serve as my clerk, and help in some chemical
experiments in which I was engaged with my friend Dr. Mesmer. Bathilde
saw this young man. Since women were, has it not been their business to
smile and deceive, to fondle and lure? Away! From the very first it has
been so!" And as my companion spoke, he looked as wicked as the serpent
that coiled round the tree, and hissed a poisoned counsel to the first
woman.

"One evening I went, as was my wont, to see Blanche. She was radiant:
she was wild with spirits: a saucy triumph blazed in her blue eyes. She
talked, she rattled in her childish way. She uttered, in the course of
her rhapsody, a hint--an intimation--so terrible that the truth flashed
across me in a moment. Did I ask her? She would lie to me. But I know
how to make falsehood impossible. Add I ORDERED HER TO GO TO SLEEP."

At this moment the clock (after its previous convulsions) sounded
TWELVE. And as the new Editor* of the Cornhill Magazine--and HE, I
promise you, won't stand any nonsense--will only allow seven pages, I am
obliged to leave off at THE VERY MOST INTERESTING POINT OF THE STORY.

* Mr. Thackeray retired from the Editorship of the Cornhill
Magazine in March, 1862.


PART III.


"Are you of our fraternity? I see you are not. The secret which
Mademoiselle de Bechamel confided to me in her mad triumph and wild
hoyden spirits--she was but a child, poor thing, poor thing, scarce
fifteen--but I love them young--a folly not unusual with the old!" (Here
Mr. Pinto thrust his knuckles into his hollow eyes; and, I am sorry to
say, so little regardful was he of personal cleanliness, that his tears
made streaks of white over his gnarled dark hands.) "Ah, at fifteen,
poor child, thy fate was terrible! Go to! It is not good to love me,
friend. They prosper not who do. I divine you. You need not say what you
are thinking--"

In truth, I was thinking, if girls fall in love with this sallow
hook-nosed, glass-eyed, wooden-legged, dirty, hideous old man, with the
sham teeth, they have a queer taste. THAT is what I was thinking.

"Jack Wilkes said the handsomest man in London had but half an hour's
start of him. And without vanity, I am scarcely uglier than Jack Wilkes.
We were members of the same club at Medenham Abbey, Jack and I, and had
many a merry night together. Well, sir, I--Mary of Scotland knew me but
as a little hunchbacked music-master; and yet, and yet, I think SHE was
not indifferent to her David Riz--and SHE came to misfortune. They all
do--they all do!"

"Sir, you are wandering from your point!" I said, with some severity.
For, really, for this old humbug to hint that he had been the baboon who
frightened the club at Medenham, that he had been in the Inquisition at
Valladolid--that under the name of D. Riz, as he called it, he had known
the lovely Queen of Scots--was a LITTLE too much. "Sir," then I said,
"you were speaking about a Miss de Bechamel. I really have not time to
hear all your biography."

"Faith, the good wine gets into my head." (I should think so, the old
toper! Four bottles all but two glasses.) "To return to poor Blanche.
As I sat laughing, joking with her, she let slip a word, a little
word, which filled me with dismay. Some one had told her a part of
the Secret--the secret which has been divulged scarce thrice in three
thousand years--the Secret of the Freemasons. Do you know what happens
to those uninitiate who learn that secret? to those wretched men, the
initiate who reveal it?"

As Pinto spoke to me, he looked through and through me with his horrible
piercing glance, so that I sat quite uneasily on my bench. He continued:
"Did I question her awake? I knew she would lie to me. Poor child! I
loved her no less because I did not believe a word she said. I loved her
blue eye, her golden hair, her delicious voice, that was true in song,
though when she spoke, false as Eblis! You are aware that I possess
in rather a remarkable degree what we have agreed to call the mesmeric
power. I set the unhappy girl to sleep. THEN she was obliged to tell me
all. It was as I had surmised. Goby de Mouchy, my wretched, besotted,
miserable secretary, in his visits to the chateau of the Marquis de
Bechamel, who was one of our society, had seen Blanche. I suppose it was
because she had been warned that he was worthless, and poor, artful
and a coward, she loved him. She wormed out of the besotted wretch the
secrets of our Order. 'Did he tell you the NUMBER ONE?' I asked.

"She said, 'Yes.'

"'Did he,' I further inquired, 'tell you the--'

"'Oh, don't ask me, don't ask me!' she said, writhing on the sofa, where
she lay in the presence of the Marquis de Bechamel, her most unhappy
father. Poor Bechamel, poor Bechamel! How pale he looked as I spoke!
'Did he tell you,' I repeated with a dreadful calm, 'the NUMBER TWO?'
She said, 'Yes.'

"The poor old marquis rose up, and clasping his hands, fell on his knees
before Count Cagl---- Bah! I went by a different name then. Vat's in
a name? Dat vich ve call a Rosicrucian by any other name vil smell as
sveet. 'Monsieur,' he said, 'I am old--I am rich. I have five hundred
thousand livres of rentes in Picardy. I have half as much in Artois. I
have two hundred and eighty thousand on the Grand Livre. I am promised
by my Sovereign a dukedom and his orders with a reversion to my heir. I
am a Grandee of Spain of the First Class, and Duke of Volovento. Take
my titles, my ready money, my life, my honor, everything I have in the
world, but don't ask the THIRD QUESTION.'

"'Godefroid de Bouillon, Comte de Bechamel, Grandee of Spain and Prince
of Volovento, in our Assembly what was the oath you swore?'" The old man
writhed as he remembered its terrific purport.

"Though my heart was racked with agony, and I would have died, ay,
cheerfully" (died, indeed, as if THAT were a penalty!) "to spare yonder
lovely child a pang, I said to her calmly, 'Blanche de Bechamel, did
Goby de Mouchy tell you secret NUMBER THREE?'

"She whispered a oui that was quite faint, faint and small. But her poor
father fell in convulsions at her feet.

"She died suddenly that night. Did I not tell you those I love come to
no good? When General Bonaparte crossed the Saint Bernard, he saw in the
convent an old monk with a white beard, wandering about the corridors,
cheerful and rather stout, but mad--mad as a March hare. 'General,' I
said to him, 'did you ever see that face before?' He had not. He had
not mingled much with the higher classes of our society before the
Revolution. I knew the poor old man well enough; he was the last of a
noble race, and I loved his child."

"And did she die by--?"

"Man! did I say so? Do I whisper the secrets of the Vehmgericht? I
say she died that night: and he--he, the heartless, the villain, the
betrayer,--you saw him seated in yonder curiosity-shop, by yonder
guillotine, with his scoundrelly head in his lap.

"You saw how slight that instrument was? It was one of the first which
Guillotin made, and which he showed to private friends in a HANGAR
in the Rue Picpus, where he lived. The invention created some little
conversation amongst scientific men at the time, though I remember a
machine in Edinburgh of a very similar construction, two hundred--well,
many, many years ago--and at a breakfast which Guillotin gave he showed
us the instrument, and much talk arose amongst us as to whether people
suffered under it.

"And now I must tell you what befell the traitor who had caused all this
suffering. Did he know that the poor child's death was a SENTENCE? He
felt a cowardly satisfaction that with her was gone the secret of
his treason. Then he began to doubt. I had MEANS to penetrate all his
thoughts, as well as to know his acts. Then he became a slave to a
horrible fear. He fled in abject terror to a convent. They still existed
in Paris; and behind the walls of Jacobins the wretch thought himself
secure. Poor fool! I had but to set one of my somnambulists to sleep.
Her spirit went forth and spied the shuddering wretch in his cell. She
described the street, the gate, the convent, the very dress which he
wore, and which you saw to-day.

"And now THIS is what happened. In his chamber in the Rue St. Honore, at
Paris, sat a man ALONE--a man who has been maligned, a man who has been
called a knave and charlatan, a man who has been persecuted even to the
death, it is said, in Roman Inquisitions, forsooth, and elsewhere. Ha!
ha! A man who has a mighty will.

"And looking towards the Jacobins Convent (of which, from his chamber,
he could see the spires and trees), this man WILLED. And it was not yet
dawn. And he willed; and one who was lying in his cell in the convent
of Jacobins, awake and shuddering with terror for a crime which he had
committed, fell asleep.

"But though he was asleep his eyes were open.

"And after tossing and writhing, and clinging to the pallet, and saying,
'No, I will not go,' he rose up and donned his clothes--a gray coat, a
vest of white pique, black satin small-clothes, ribbed silk stockings,
and a white stock with a steel buckle; and he arranged his hair, and
he tied his queue, all the while being in that strange somnolence
which walks, which moves, which FLIES sometimes, which sees, which is
indifferent to pain, which OBEYS. And he put on his hat, and he went
forth from his cell; and though the dawn was not yet, he trod the
corridors as seeing them. And he passed into the cloister, and then into
the garden where lie the ancient dead. And he came to the wicket,
which Brother Jerome was opening just at the dawning. And the crowd was
already waiting with their cans and bowls to receive the alms of the
good brethren.

"And he passed through the crowd and went on his way, and the few people
then abroad who marked him, said, 'Tiens! how very odd he looks!
He looks like a man walking in his sleep!' This was said by various
persons:--

"By milk-women, with their cans and carts, coming into the town.

"By roysterers who had been drinking at the taverns of the Barrier, for
it was Mid-Lent.

"By the sergeants of the watch, who eyed him sternly as he passed near
their halberds.

"But he passed on unmoved by their halberds,

"Unmoved by the cries of the roysterers,

"By the market-women coming with their milk and eggs.

"He walked through the Rue St. Honore, I say:--

"By the Rue Rambuteau,

"By the Rue St. Antoine,

"By the King's Chateau of the Bastille,

"By the Faubourg St. Antoine.

"And he came to No. 29 in the Rue Picpus--a house which then stood
between a court and garden--

"That is, there was a building of one story, with a great coach-door.

"Then there was a court, around which were stables, coach-houses,
offices.

"Then there was a house--a two-storied house, with a perron in front.

"Behind the house was a garden--a garden of two hundred and fifty French
feet in length.

"And as one hundred feet of France equal one hundred and six feet of
England, this garden, my friends, equalled exactly two hundred and
sixty-five feet of British measure.

"In the centre of the garden was a fountain and a statue--or, to speak
more correctly, two statues. One was recumbent,--a man. Over him, sabre
in hand, stood a woman.

"The man was Olofernes. The woman was Judith. From the head, from the
trunk, the water gushed. It was the taste of the doctor:--was it not a
droll of taste?

"At the end of the garden was the doctor's cabinet of study. My faith, a
singular cabinet, and singular pictures!--

"Decapitation of Charles Premier at Vitehall.

"Decapitation of Montrose at Edimbourg.

"Decapitation of Cinq Mars. When I tell you that he was a man of a
taste, charming!

"Through this garden, by these statues, up these stairs, went the pale
figure of him who, the porter said, knew the way of the house. He did.
Turning neither right nor left, he seemed to walk THROUGH the statues,
the obstacles, the flower-beds, the stairs, the door, the tables, the
chairs.

"In the corner of the room was THAT INSTRUMENT, which Guillotin had just
invented and perfected. One day he was to lay his own head under his own
axe. Peace be to his name! With him I deal not!

"In a frame of mahogany, neatly worked, was a board with a half-circle
in it, over which another board fitted. Above was a heavy axe, which
fell--you know how. It was held up by a rope, and when this rope was
untied, or cut, the steel fell.

"To the story which I now have to relate, you may give credence, or not,
as you will. The sleeping man went up to that instrument.

"He laid his head in it, asleep."

"Asleep?"

"He then took a little penknife out of the pocket of his white dimity
waistcoat.

"He cut the rope asleep.

"The axe descended on the head of the traitor and villain. The notch in
it was made by the steel buckle of his stock, which was cut through.

"A strange legend has got abroad that after the deed was done, the
figure rose, took the head from the basket, walked forth through the
garden, and by the screaming porters at the gate, and went and laid
itself down at the Morgue. But for this I will not vouch. Only of this
be sure. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are
dreamed of in your philosophy.' More and more the light peeps through
the chinks. Soon, amidst music ravishing, the curtain will rise, and the
glorious scene be displayed. Adieu! Remember me. Ha! 'tis dawn," Pinto
said. And he was gone.

I am ashamed to say that my first movement was to clutch the cheque
which he had left with me, and which I was determined to present the
very moment the bank opened. I know the importance of these things, and
that men CHANGE THEIR MIND sometimes. I sprang through the streets to
the great banking house of Manasseh in Duke Street. It seemed to me as
if I actually flew as I walked. As the clock struck ten I was at the
counter and laid down my cheque.

The gentleman who received it, who was one of the Hebrew persuasion, as
were the other two hundred clerks of the establishment, having looked at
the draft with terror in his countenance, then looked at me, then called
to himself two of his fellow-clerks, and queer it was to see all their
aquiline beaks over the paper.

"Come, come!" said I, "don't keep me here all day. Hand me over the
money, short, if you please!" for I was, you see, a little alarmed, and
so determined to assume some extra bluster.

"Will you have the kindness to step into the parlor to the partners?"
the clerk said, and I followed him.

"What, AGAIN?" shrieked a bald-headed, red-whiskered gentleman, whom I
knew to be Mr. Manasseh. "Mr. Salathiel, this is too bad! Leave me with
this gentleman, S." And the clerk disappeared.

"Sir," he said, "I know how you came by this; the Count de Pinto gave it
you. It is too bad! I honor my parents; I honor THEIR parents; I honor
their bills! But this one of grandma's is too bad--it is, upon my word
now! She've been dead these five-and-thirty years. And this last four
months she has left her burial-place and took to drawing on our 'ouse!
It's too bad, grandma; it is too bad!" and he appealed to me, and tears
actually trickled down his nose.

"Is it the Countess Sidonia's cheque or not?" I asked, haughtily.

"But, I tell you, she's dead! It's a shame!--it's a shame!--it is,
grandmamma!" and he cried, and wiped his great nose in his yellow
pocket-handkerchief. "Look year--will you take pounds instead of
guineas? She's dead, I tell you! It's no go! Take the pounds--one
tausend pound!--ten nice, neat, crisp hundred-pound notes, and go away
vid you, do!"

"I will have my bond, sir, or nothing," I said; and I put on an attitude
of resolution which I confess surprised even myself.

"Wery vell," he shrieked, with many oaths, "then you shall have
noting--ha, ha, ha!--noting but a policeman! Mr. Abednego, call a
policeman! Take that, you humbug and impostor!" and here, with an
abundance of frightful language which I dare not repeat, the wealthy
banker abused and defied me.

Au bout du compte, what was I to do, if a banker did not choose to
honor a cheque drawn by his dead grandmother? I began to wish I had my
snuff-box back. I began to think I was a fool for changing that little
old-fashioned gold for this slip of strange paper.

Meanwhile the banker had passed from his fit of anger to a paroxysm of
despair. He seemed to be addressing some person invisible, but in the
room: "Look here, ma'am, you've really been coming it too strong. A
hundred thousand in six months, and now a thousand more! The 'ouse can't
stand it; it WON'T stand it, I say! What? Oh! mercy, mercy!"

As he uttered these words, A Hand fluttered over the table in the air!
It was a female hand: that which I had seen the night before. That
female hand took a pen from the green baize table, dipped it in a
silver inkstand, and wrote on a quarter of a sheet of foolscap on the
blotting-book, "How about the diamond robbery? If you do not pay, I will
tell him where they are."

What diamonds? what robbery? what was this mystery? That will never
be ascertained, for the wretched man's demeanor instantly changed.
"Certainly, sir;--oh, certainly," he said, forcing a grin. "How will you
have the money, sir? All right, Mr. Abednego. This way out."

"I hope I shall often see you again," I said; on which I own poor
Manasseh gave a dreadful grin, and shot back into his parlor.

I ran home, clutching the ten delicious, crisp hundred pounds, and the
dear little fifty which made up the account. I flew through the streets
again. I got to my chambers. I bolted the outer doors. I sank back in my
great chair, and slept. . . .

My first thing on waking was to feel for my money. Perdition! Where was
I? Ha!--on the table before me was my grandmother's snuff-box, and by
its side one of those awful--those admirable--sensation novels, which I
had been reading, and which are full of delicious wonder.

But that the guillotine is still to be seen at Mr. Gale's, No. 47, High
Holborn, I give you MY HONOR. I suppose I was dreaming about it. I
don't know. What is dreaming? What is life? Why shouldn't I sleep on the
ceiling?--and am I sitting on it now, or on the floor? I am puzzled. But
enough. If the fashion for sensation novels goes on, I tell you I
will write one in fifty volumes. For the present, DIXI. But between
ourselves, this Pinto, who fought at the Colosseum, who was nearly being
roasted by the Inquisition, and sang duets at Holyrood, I am rather
sorry to lose him after three little bits of Roundabout Papers. Et vous?




DE FINIBUS.


When Swift was in love with Stella, and despatching her a letter from
London thrice a month by the Irish packet, you may remember how he would
begin letter No. XXIII., we will say, on the very day when XXII. had
been sent away, stealing out of the coffee-house or the assembly so as
to be able to prattle with his dear; "never letting go her kind hand, as
it were," as some commentator or other has said in speaking of the Dean
and his amour. When Mr. Johnson, walking to Dodsley's, and touching the
posts in Pall Mall as he walked, forgot to pat the head of one of them,
he went back and imposed his hands on it,--impelled I know not by what
superstition. I have this I hope not dangerous mania too. As soon as a
piece of work is out of hand, and before going to sleep, I like to
begin another: it may be to write only half a dozen lines: but that is
something towards Number the Next. The printer's boy has not yet reached
Green Arbor Court with the copy. Those people who were alive half an
hour since, Pendennis, Clive Newcome, and (what do you call him? what
was the name of the last hero? I remember now!) Philip Firmin, have
hardly drunk their glass of wine, and the mammas have only this
minute got the children's cloaks on, and have been bowed out of my
premises--and here I come back to the study again: tamen usque recurro.
How lonely it looks now all these people are gone! My dear good friends,
some folks are utterly tired of you, and say, "What a poverty of friends
the man has! He is always asking us to meet those Pendennises, Newcomes,
and so forth. Why does he not introduce us to some new characters? Why
is he not thrilling like Twostars, learned and profound like Threestars,
exquisitely humorous and human like Fourstars? Why, finally, is he not
somebody else?" My good people, it is not only impossible to please you
all, but it is absurd to try. The dish which one man devours, another
dislikes. Is the dinner of to-day not to your taste? Let us hope
to-morrow's entertainment will be more agreeable. . . . I resume my
original subject. What an odd, pleasant, humorous, melancholy feeling it
is to sit in the study, alone and quiet, now all these people are gone
who have been boarding and lodging with me for twenty months! They have
interrupted my rest: they have plagued me at all sorts of minutes: they
have thrust themselves upon me when I was ill, or wished to be idle, and
I have growled out a "Be hanged to you, can't you leave me alone now?"
Once or twice they have prevented my going out to dinner. Many and many
a time they have prevented my coming home, because I knew they were
there waiting in the study, and a plague take them! and I have left home
and family, and gone to dine at the Club, and told nobody where I went.
They have bored me, those people. They have plagued me at all sorts of
uncomfortable hours. They have made such a disturbance in my mind
and house, that sometimes I have hardly known what was going on in my
family, and scarcely have heard what my neighbor said to me. They are
gone at last; and you would expect me to be at ease? Far from it. I
should almost be glad if Woolcomb would walk in and talk to me; or
Twysden reappear, take his place in that chair opposite me, and begin
one of his tremendous stories.