Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (167 page)

"This
seems
to
be
an
exception
to
the
rule."

"There
are
no
exceptions
to
rules.
Some
are
not
so
hard-looking as
others,
but
they
are
all
the
same
when
you
touch.
If
this
friend
of yours
said
so-and-so
and
so-and-so,
indicating
that
he
remembered all
his
lost
lives,
or
one
piece
of
a
lost
life,
he
would
not
be
in
the bank
another
hour.
He
would
be
what
you
called
sack
because
he was
mad,
and
they
would
send
him
to
an
asylum
for
lunatics.
You
can see
that,
my
friend."

"Of
course
I
can,
but
I
wasn't
thinking
of
him.
His
name
need never
appear
in
the
story."

"Ah!
I
see.
That
story
will
never
be
written.
You
can
try."

"I
am
going
to."

"For
your
own
credit
and
for
the
sake
of
money,
of
course?" "No.
For
the
sake
of
writing
the
story.
On
my
honor
that
will
be all."

"Even
then
there
is
no
chance.
You
cannot
play
with
the
Gods.
It is
a
very
pretty
story
now.
As
they
say,
Let
it
go
on
that—I
mean
at that.
Be
quick;
he
will
not
last
long."

"How
do
you
mean?"

"What
I
say.
He
has
never,
so
far,
thought
about
a
woman."

"Hasn't
he,
though!"
I
remembered
some
of
Charlie's
confidences.

"I
mean
no
woman
has
thought
about
him.
When
that
comes; bus—hogya—all
up!
I
know.
There
are
millions
of
women
here. Housemaids,
for
instance."

I
winced
at
the
thought
of
my
story
being
ruined
by
a
housemaid. And
yet
nothing
was
more
probable.

Grish
Chunder
grinned.

"Yes—also
pretty
girls—cousins
of
his
house,
and
perhaps
not
of
his
house.
One
kiss
that
he
gives
back
again
and
remembers
will
cure
all
this
nonsense,
or
else"
---

"Or
else
what?
Remember
he
does
not
know
that
he
knows."

"I
know
that.
Or
else,
if
nothing
happens
he
will
become
immersed in
the
trade
and
the
financial
speculations
like
the
rest.
It
must
be so.
You
can
see
that
it
must
be
so.
But
the
woman
will
come
first,
I think."

There
was
a
rap
at
the
door,
and
Charlie
charged
in
impetuously. He
had
been
released
from
office,
and
by
the
look
in
his
eyes
I
could see
that
he
had
come
over
for
a
long
talk;
most
probably
with
poems in
his
pockets.
Charlie's
poems
were
very
wearying,
but
sometimes they
led
him
to
talk
about
the
galley.

Grish
Chunder
looked
at
him
keenly
for
a
minute.

"I
beg
your
pardon,"
Charlie
said,
uneasily;
"I
didn't
know
you had
anyone
with
you."

"I
am
going,"
said
Grish
Chunder.

He
drew
me
into
the
lobby
as
he
departed.

"That
is
your
man,"
he
said,
quickly.
"i
tell
you
he
will
never
speak all
you
wish.
That
is
rot—bosh.
But
he
would
be
most
good
to
make to
see
things.
Suppose
now
we
pretend
that
it
was
only
play"—I had
never
seen
Grish
Chunder
so
excited—"and
pour
the
ink-pool into
his
hand.
Eh,
what
do
you
think?
I
tell
you
that
he
could
see anything
that
a
man
could
see.
Let
me
get
the
ink
and
the
camphor. He
is
a
seer
and
he
will
tell
us
very
many
things."