"It looks untidy."
"And so unhappy," added the bishop. "Dear me! This is most singular. I
seem to see two lamps instead of one. It must have been those
apricots."
Keith interposed:
"Or perhaps you strained one of your eyes bathing. It has happened to
me, occasionally. Darkness is the best remedy. It rests the optic
nerve."
"Shall we take a turn or two outside?" asked Denis.
It was past midnight as the two climbed out of the cave into the night
air. A cool north wind blew across the market-place. The bishop was
filled with a sense--a clear-cut, all-convincing sense--of the
screamingly funny insignificance of everything. Then he noticed the
moon.
It dangled over the water, waning, sickly, moth-eaten, top-heavy, and
altogether out of condition--as if it had been on duty for weeks on end.
In other respects, too, its appearance was not quite normal. In fact,
it soon took to behaving in the most extraordinary fashion. Sometimes
there were two moons, and sometimes one. They seemed to merge
together--to glide into each other, and then to separate again.
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