His eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon
the little table. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I
saw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.
The Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers. The
gyn ceum s odd, he said. The Psychologist leant forward to see,
holding out his hand for a specimen.
I m hanged if it isn t a quarter to one, said the Journalist. How
shall we get home?
Plenty of cabs at the station, said the Psychologist.
It s a curious thing, said the Medical Man; but I certainly don t
know the natural order of these flowers. May I have them?
The Time Traveller hesitated. Then suddenly: Certainly not.
Where did you really get them? said the Medical Man.
The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like one who was
trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him. They were put into my
pocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time. He stared round the room.
I m damned if it isn t all going. This room and you and the atmosphere
of every day is too much for my memory. Did I ever make a Time Machine,
or a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all only a dream? They say life
is a dream, a precious poor dream at times but I can t stand another
that won t fit. It s madness. And where did the dream come from? ... I
must look at that machine. If there is one!
He caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the
door into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering light
of the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a
thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz. Solid
to the touch for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it and with
brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon
the lower parts, and one rail bent awry.
The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand
along the damaged rail. It s all right now, he said. The story I
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