For while he could always remember afterwards that he had swooned before the face of Sunday, he could not remember having ever come to at all.

He could only remember that gradually and naturally he knew that he was and had been walking along a country lane with an easy and conversational companion.

That companion had been a part of his recent drama; it was the red-haired poet Gregory.

They were walking like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some triviality.

But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to everything that he said or did.