half-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intense
suffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been
dazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with just
such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him in
silence, expecting him to speak.
He said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion
towards the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed it
towards him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he looked
round the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his
face. What on earth have you been up to, man? said the Doctor. The
Time Traveller did not seem to hear. Don t let me disturb you, he
said, with a certain faltering articulation. I m all right. He
stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught.
That s good, he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came
into his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certain
dull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Then
he spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words. I m
going to wash and dress, and then I ll come down and explain things....
Save me some of that mutton. I m starving for a bit of meat.
He looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he
was all right. The Editor began a question. Tell you presently, said
the Time Traveller. I m funny! Be all right in a minute.
He put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again I
remarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and
standing up in my place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing
on them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the door
closed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how he
detested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind was
wool-gathering. Then, Remarkable Behaviour of an Eminent Scientist, I
heard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And this
brought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.
What s the game? said the Journalist. Has he been doing the Amateur
Cadger? I don t follow. I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my
own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limping
painfully upstairs. I don t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.
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