And it is not at all his affair. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers.
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