He went on mechanically reading down the bulletin, leaving something of himself behind him that did not read on. Then he returned to that remarkable² item and re-read it, and picked up that lost element of his being again.

 

He had awaited this event for so long, thought of it so often in such a great variety of relationships, dreamt of it, hoped for it, prayed for it, and tried not to think of it, that now it came to him in reality it seemed to have no substance or significance whatever. He had exhausted⁴ the fact before it happened. Since first he had thought of it there had passed four long years, and in that time he had seen it from every aspect, exhausted every possibility. It had become a theoretical possibility, the basis of continually less confident, continually more unsubstantial day dreams. Constantly he had tried not to think of it, tried to assure himself of Sir Isaac's invalid⁵ immortality⁶. And here it was!

 

The line above it concerned an overdue⁷ ship, the line below resumed a speech by Mr. Lloyd George. "He would challenge the honourable⁸ member to repeat his accusations——"

 

Mr. Brumley stood quite still before the mauve-coloured print letters for some time, then went slowly across the hall into the breakfast-room, sat down in a chair by the fireplace, and fell into a kind of featureless thinking. Sir Isaac was dead, his wife was free, and the long waiting that had become a habit was at an end.

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