And so, as he lay there, knowing that a long while must pass before he would have any chance of breakfast or even of a cup of tea, he made a stronger effort than usual to get his thoughts into focus. The wet airs blowing in through the open windows helped him in this attempt. It was as if he stole away from that little round porthole and shuffled off to some upper deck, where he could feel the wide horizons. His mind kept reverting to what he had felt during the drive with Darnley, and he tried to analyze what sort of philosophy it was that remained with him during all the normal hours when his “mythology”⁠—his secret spiritual vice⁠—lay quiescent. He fumbled about in his mind for some clue to his normal attitude to life⁠—some clue-word that he could use to describe it, if any of his new friends began questioning him; and the word he hit upon at last was the word fetish-worship . That was it! His normal attitude to life was just that⁠—or nearer that than anything else!