The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have liked to know the time⁠—to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth, to hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly, homelike. He had not even strength to remember that the old watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of his brain beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurse’s, doctor’s, orderly’s, were indistinguishable, just one indifferent face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, and that almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though far and faint, were more distinct⁠—walking past the foot of the old steps at Harrow “bill”⁠—“Here, sir! Here, sir!”⁠—wrapping boots in the Westminster Gazette , greenish paper, shining boots⁠—grandfather coming from somewhere dark⁠—a smell of earth⁠—the mushroom house! Robin Hill! Burying poor old Balthasar in the leaves! Dad! Home.⁠ ⁠…

Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water in it⁠—someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What could one want? Too weak to want⁠—only to hear his watch strike.⁠ ⁠…