“Like the day of judgement,” he said, throwing a bottle so that it somehow settled, rocking on its right end. “People say vast universe⁠ ⁠… infinity and astronomy; not sure⁠ ⁠… I think things are too close together⁠ ⁠… packed up; for travelling⁠ ⁠… stars too close, really⁠ ⁠… why, the sun’s a star, too close to be seen properly; the earth’s a star, too close to be seen at all⁠ ⁠… too many pebbles on the beach; ought all to be put in rings; too many blades of grass to study⁠ ⁠… feathers on a bird make the brain reel; wait till the big bag is unpacked⁠ ⁠… may all be put in our right places then.”

Here he stopped, literally for breath⁠—throwing a shirt to the other end of the room, and then a bottle of ink so that it fell quite neatly beyond it. Inglewood looked round on this strange, half-symmetrical disorder with an increasing doubt.

In fact, the more one explored Mr.