III + 

There was a dirty little sitting room in the Albergo Empedocle, and Mildred was sitting there after dinner waiting for her father. He had met some friends at the temples, and he and she had agreed to pay them a visit. It was a cold night, and the room smelt of mustiness and lamp oil. The only other occupant was a stiff-backed lady who had found a three-year-old number of Home Chat. Lady Peaslake, Lilian, and Harold were all with Sir Edwin, hunting for the key of his Gladstone bag. Till it was found he could not go out with her, for all his clean collars were inside. + 

Mildred was thoroughly miserable. After long torture she had confessed to herself that she was self-deceived. She had never lived in Acragas. She remembered nothing. All her glowing description was pure imagination, the result of sentimental excitement. For instance she had spoken of “snow-white marble temples.” That was nonsense, sheer nonsense. She had seen the remains of those temples, and they were built of porous stone, not marble. And she remembered now that the Sicilian Greeks always covered their temples with coloured stucco. At first she had tried to thrust such objections away and to believe that she had found a truth to which archaeology must yield. But what pictures or music did she remember? When had she buckled on Harold’s armour, and what was it like? Was it probable that they had led a sacrifice together? The visions, always misty, faded away. She had never lived in Acragas. + 

But that was only the beginning of her mortification. Harold had proved her wrong. He had seen that she was a shifty, shallow hypocrite. She had not dared to be alone with him since her exposure. She had never looked at him and had hardly spoken. He seemed cheerful, but what was he thinking? He would never forgive her. + 

Had she only realised that it is only hypocrites who cannot forgive hypocrisy, whereas those who search for truth are too conscious of the maze to be hard on others⁠—then the bitter flow of her thoughts might have been stopped and the catastrophe averted. But it was not conceivable to her that she should forgive⁠—or that she should accept forgiveness, for to her forgiveness meant a triumph of one person over another. + 

So she went still further towards sorrow. She felt that Harold had scored off her, and she determined to make the score as little as she could. Was he really as sincere as he had seemed? Sincere he might be, but he might be self-deceived even as she was. That would explain all. He too had been moved by the beauty of the scene, by its wonderful associations. Worn out he had fallen asleep, and, conscious perhaps that she was in a foolish sympathetic state, had indulged in a fit of imagination on awaking. She had fallen in with it, and they had encouraged each other to fresh deeds of folly. All was clear. And how was she to hide it from her father? + 

Each time she restated the question it took a more odious form. Even though she believed Harold had been as foolish as herself, she was still humiliated before him, for her folly had been revealed, and his had not. The last and worst thought pressed itself upon her. Was he really as simple as he seemed? Had he not been trying to deceive her? He had been so careful in speaking of his old life: would only say that he had been “greater,” “better”⁠—never gave one single detail by which archaeology might prove him wrong. It was very clever of him. He had never lost his head once. Jealous of her superior acquirements, he had determined to put her to ridicule. He had laid a cunning bait and she had swallowed it. How cleverly he had lured her on to make the effort of recollection! How patiently he had heard her rapturous speech, in order that he might prove her silly to the core! How diabolically worded was his retort⁠—“No, Mildred darling, you have not lived at Acragas.” It implied, “I will be kind to you and treat you well when you are my wife, but recollect that you are silly, emotional, hypocritical: that your pretensions to superiority are gone forever; that I have proved you inferior to me, even as all women are inferior to all men. Dear Mildred, you are a fool!” + 

“Intolerable! intolerable!” she gasped to herself, “if only I could expose him! I never dreamt it of him! I was never on my guard!” + 

Harold came quickly into the room, and she was at once upon the defensive. He told her that her father was ready and she got up to go, her ears aching in expectation of some taunt. It came⁠—a very subtle one. She heard him say, “Kiss me before you go,” and felt his hands grasp her elbows. + 

“No!” she said, shrinking from his touch, and frowning towards the stiff-backed lady, who sat a little stiffer. + 

“You’ll have to,” was his reply, and catching hold of her⁠—he was very strong⁠—he lifted her right above his head, and broke the feathers in her hat against the ceiling. He never completed his embrace, for she shrieked aloud, inarticulate with passion, and the voice of Sir Edwin was heard saying “Come, come, Harold, my boy⁠—come, come!” + 

He set her down, and white with rage she hissed at him, “I never thought I should live to find you both charlatan and cad,” and left the room. + 

Had she stayed, she would have been gratified at the prompt effect of her rebuke. Harold stood where she left him, dumb with misery, and then, without further warning, began to cry. He cried without shame or restraint, not even turning his head or covering his face with his hands, but letting the tears run down his cheeks till they caught in his moustache, or dropped on to the floor. Sir Edwin, not unmoved, stood before him for a moment, stammering as he tried to think of something that should both rebuke and console. + 

But the world has forgotten what to say to men of twenty-four who cry. Sir Edwin followed his daughter, giving a despairing look at Lady Peaslake and Lilian as he departed. + 

Lady Peaslake took up the line of behaving as if nothing had happened, and began talking in a high voice about the events of the day. Harold did not attempt to leave the room, but still stood near the table, sobbing and gulping for breath. + 

Lilian, moved by a more human impulse, tremulously asked him why he cried, and at this point the stiff-backed lady, who had sat through everything, gathered up her skirts as if she had seen a beetle, and slipped from the room. + 

“I cry because I’m unhappy: because Mildred’s angry with me.” + 

“Er⁠—er,” said Lady Peaslake, “I’m sure that it would be Mildred’s wish that you should stop.” + 

“I thought at dinner,” he gasped, “that she was not pleased. Why? Why? Nothing had happened. Nothing but happiness, I mean. The best way, I thought, of showing I love her is to kiss her, and that will make her understand again. You know, she understood everything.” + 

“Oh yes,” said Lady Peaslake. “Look,” she added to divert him, “how do you like my new embroidery?” + 

“It’s hideous⁠—perfectly hideous!” was his vigorous reply. + 

“Well, here is a particular gentleman!” said good-natured Lady Peaslake. “Why, it’s Liberty!” + 

“Frightful,” said Harold. He had stopped crying. His face was all twisted with pain, but such a form of expressing emotion is fairly suitable for men, and Lady Peaslake felt easier. + 

But he returned to Mildred. “She called me a cad and a charlatan.” + 

“Oh, never mind!” said Lilian. + 

“I may be a cad. I never did quite see what a cad is, and no one ever quite explained to me. But a charlatan! Why did she call me a charlatan? I can’t quite see what I’ve done.” + 

He began to walk up and down the little room. Lady Peaslake gently suggested a stroll, but he took no notice and kept murmuring “Charlatan.” + 

“Why are pictures like this allowed!” he suddenly cried. He had stopped in front of a coloured print in which the martyrdom of St. Agatha was depicted with all the fervour that incompetence could command. + 

“It’s only a saint,” said Lady Peaslake, placidly raising her head. + 

“How disgusting⁠—and how ugly!” + 

“Yes, very. It’s Roman Catholic.” + 

He turned away shuddering, and began his everlasting question⁠—“Why did she call me a charlatan?” + 

Lady Peaslake felt compelled to say⁠—“You see, Harold, you annoyed her, and when people are annoyed they will say anything. I know it by myself.” + 

“But a charlatan! I know for certain that she understands me. Only this afternoon I told her⁠—” + 

“Oh, yes,” said Lady Peaslake. + 

“Told her that I had lived before⁠—lived here over two thousand years ago, she thinks.” + 

“Harold! my dear Harold! what nonsense are you talking?” Lady Peaslake had risen from her chair. + 

“Over two thousand years ago, when the place had another name.” + 

“Good heavens; he is mad!” + 

“Mildred didn’t think so. It’s she who matters. Lilian, do you believe me?” + 

“No,” faltered Lilian, edging towards the door. + 

He smiled, rather contemptuously. + 

“Now, Harold,” said Lady Peaslake, “go and lie down, there’s a good boy. You want rest. Mildred will call you charlatan with reason if you say such silly, such wicked things⁠—good gracious me! He’s fainting! Lilian! water from the dining-room! Oh, what has happened? We were all so happy this morning.” + 

The stiff-backed lady reentered the room, accompanied by a thin little man with a black beard. + 

“Are you a doctor?” cried Lady Peaslake. + 

He was not, but he helped them to lay Harold on the sofa. He had not really fainted, for he was talking continually. + 

“You might have killed me,” he said to Lady Peaslake, “you have said such an awful thing. You mean she thinks I never lived before. I know you’re wrong, but it nearly kills me if you even say it. I have lived before⁠—such a wonderful life. You will hear⁠—Mildred will say it again. She won’t like talking about it, but she’ll say it if I want her to. That will save me from⁠—from⁠—from being a charlatan. Where is Mildred?” + 

“Hush!” said the little man. + 

“I have lived before⁠—I have lived before, haven’t I? Do you believe me?” + 

“Yes,” said the little man. + 

“You lie,” said Harold. “Now I’ve only to see people and I can tell. Where is Mildred?” + 

“You must come to bed.” + 

“I don’t speak or move till she comes.” + 

So he lay silent and motionless on the sofa, while they stood around him whispering. + 

Mildred returned in a very different mood. A few questions from her father, followed by a few grave words of rebuke, had brought her to a sober mind. She was terribly in fault; she had nourished Harold’s insanity first by encouraging it, then by rebuffing it. Sir Edwin severely blamed her disordered imagination, and bade her curb it; its effects might be disastrous, and he told her plainly that unless Harold entirely regained his normal condition he would not permit the marriage to take place. She acknowledged her fault, and returned determined to repair it; she was full of pity and contrition, but at the same time she was very matter-of-fact. + 

He heard them return and rushed to meet her, and she rushed to meet him. They met in the long passage, where it was too dark to see each other’s faces, + 

“Harold,” she said hurriedly, “I said two dreadful words to you. Will you forgive me?” + 

She tried to touch him, but he pushed her off with his arm, and said⁠—“Come to the light.” + 

The landlord appeared with a lamp. Harold took it and held it up to Mildred’s face. + 

“Don’t!” she said feebly. + 

“Harold!” called Lady Peaslake. “Come back!” + 

“Look at me!” said Harold. + 

“Don’t!” said Mildred and shut her eyes. + 

“Open your eyes!” + 

She opened them, and saw his. Then she screamed and called out to her father⁠—“Take him away! I’m frightened. He’s mad! He’s mad!” + 

Harold said quite calmly, “This is the end.” + 

“Yes,” said Sir Edwin, nervously taking the lamp, “now it’s bedtime.” + 

“If you think I’m mad,” said Harold, “I am mad. That’s all it means.” + 

“Go to bed, Harold, to please me.” + 

“Six people say I’m mad. Is there no one, no one, no one who understands?” He stumbled up the passage as if he were blind, and they heard him calling “Tommy.” + 

In the sitting-room he caught his foot in the carpet and fell. When they picked him up, he was murmuring⁠—“Harold can’t stand up against six. What is Harold? Harold. Harold. Harold. Who is Harold?” + 

“Stop him!” cried the little man. “That’s bad! He mustn’t do that.” + 

They shook him and tried to overtalk him, but he still went on. “What is Harold? Six letters. H. A. R. O. L. D. Harold. Harold. Harold.” + 

“He’s fainted again!” cried Lady Peaslake. “Oh, what has happened?” + 

“It’s a sunstroke,” said Sir Edwin. “He caught it through sleeping in the sun this afternoon. Mildred has told me all about it.” + 

They took him up and carried him to his room. + 

As they were undressing him, he revived, and began to talk in a curious, thick voice. + 

“I was the last to go off the sofa, wasn’t I? I counted five go⁠—the wisest first⁠—and I counted ten kinds of wine for certain before I slipped. Your conjurers are poor⁠—but I liked the looks of the flute-girl.” + 

“Go away, dears,” said Lady Peaslake. “It’s no good our stopping.” + 

“Yes, I liked the flute-girl; is the porter I gave you last week a success?” + 

“Yes,” said the little man, whose cue it was always to agree. + 

“Well, he’d better help carry me home, I don’t want to walk. Nothing elaborate, you know. Just four porters for the litter, and half a dozen to carry the lights. That won’t put you out.” + 

“I’m afraid you must stop here for the night.” + 

“Very well, if you can’t send me back. Oh, the wine! the wine! I have got a head.” + 

“What is he saying?” asked Mildred through the door. + 

“Is that the flute-girl?” said Harold raising an interested eye. + 

Sir Edwin laid hold of him, but he was quite passive, and did not attempt to move. He allowed himself to be undressed, but did not assist them, and when his pyjamas were handed to him, he laughed feebly and asked what they were for. + 

“I want to look out of the window.” They took him to it, hoping that the fresh air would recall his wits, and held him tight in case he tried to leap out. There was no moon, and the expanse of trees and fields was dark and indistinguishable. + 

“There are no lights moving in the streets,” said Harold. “It must be very late. I forgot the windows were so high. How odd that there are no lights in the streets!” + 

“Yes, you’re too late,” said the little man. “You won’t mind sleeping here. It’s too far to go back.” + 

“Too far⁠—too far to go back,” he murmured. “I am so sleepy, in this room I could sleep forever. Too far⁠—too far⁠—oh, the wine!” + 

They put him into the bed, and he went off at once, and his breathing was calm and very regular. + 

“A sunstroke,” whispered Sir Edwin. “Perhaps a good night’s rest⁠—I shall sit up.” + 

But next morning Harold had forgotten how to put on his clothes, and when he tried to speak he could not pronounce his words. + 