Suddenly the doctor found himself in his own dreams. His
anxiety to plead for his friend had brought him in. He too
had become a little painted figure and he was bearing a book
in his hand. He wanted to show that the laws of the new world
could not be the same as those of the old, and the book he
was bringing as evidence was his own Psychology of a New Age.
The clear thought of that book broke up his dream by
releasing a train of waking troubles. . . . You have been six
months on Chapter Ten; will it ever be ready for
Osiris? . . . will it ever be ready for print? . . .
Dream and waking thoughts were mingled like sky and cloud
upon a windy day in April. Suddenly he saw again that lonely
figure on the narrow way with darknesses above and darknesses
below and darknesses on every hand. But this time it was not
Sir Richmond. . . . Who was it? Surely it was Everyman.
Everyman had to travel at last along that selfsame road,
leaving love, leaving every task and every desire. But was it
Everyman? . . . A great fear and horror came upon the doctor.
That little figure was himself! And the book which was his
particular task in life was still undone. He himself stood in
his turn upon that lonely path with the engulfing darknesses
about him. . . .
He seemed to wrench himself awake.
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