I _was_ drunk. I had a persistent and rather ridiculous desire to lean
back in my chair and go to sleep. This, in fact, is what I actually did,
until a terrific peal of thunder awoke me--or was it Severn laughing?
Anyway, he _was_ laughing. He was leaning over the back of the chair
next to mine, like a wild animal waiting to spring; and Helen was
standing close to him, with her eyes fixed on me. "So you're another
victim, are you?" he said.
I stammered an apology and he interrupted hurriedly: "My dear chap, you
needn't say all that. It has been an interesting example of what
Karelsky was talking about--the effects of heat on the human brain. Or
was it something else as well as the heat?... Anyhow, Professor Foljambe
could hardly walk to his taxi. Even Terry the teetotaller had to clear
off in a hurry."
"Did he?--Wh--why?"
It was Helen who answered. She said, very quietly: "He said the heat
made him feel ill, so he just slipped away without making any fuss."
"And without even seeing me," Severn added.
I said something about calling at his lodgings to see how he was, and
Helen remarked: "Oh, you needn't be alarmed about him--it was only the
heat."
I wasn't alarmed, but I wanted to see him. Ten minutes later I was on my
way to the tube station, and in half-an-hour I was at the door of the
house in Swinton Street. It was hotter in London than at Hampstead, and
the night was full of lightning and rumblings of thunder. I remember
how, in the poorer districts that I passed, whole families were sitting
out on the pavement, chattering amongst themselves and waiting for the
storm to begin.