"Not the ghost of one," said Hirst.
Although they had known each other for three years Hirst had never yet
heard the true story of Hewet's loves. In general conversation it was
taken for granted that they were many, but in private the subject was
allowed to lapse. The fact that he had money enough to do no work, and
that he had left Cambridge after two terms owing to a difference with
the authorities, and had then travelled and drifted, made his life
strange at many points where his friends' lives were much of a piece.
"I don't see your circles--I don't see them," Hewet continued. "I see a
thing like a teetotum spinning in and out--knocking into things--dashing
from side to side--collecting numbers--more and more and more, till the
whole place is thick with them. Round and round they go--out there, over
the rim--out of sight."
His fingers showed that the waltzing teetotums had spun over the edge of
the counterpane and fallen off the bed into infinity.
"Could you contemplate three weeks alone in this hotel?" asked Hirst,
after a moment's pause.
Hewet proceeded to think.
"The truth of it is that one never is alone, and one never is in
company," he concluded.
"Meaning?" said Hirst.
"Meaning? Oh, something about bubbles--auras--what d'you call 'em? You
can't see my bubble; I can't see yours; all we see of each other is a
speck, like the wick in the middle of that flame.
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