MR. S M E E T H IS WORRIED J?7

traffic within the roaring city, terrified him. He could
have sworn that the little pain somewhere inside began
tick-ticking again; and for a moment or two it seemed to
him astonishing that he should still be one of the uneasy
invaders swarming in here, one of the workers, eaters,
drinkers, smokers, pleasure lovers, movers about, from
outside. Any day now, he felt, he would be on one ot
those stretchers.

Somehow it had never occurred to him that he would
see Benenden actually in bed. He had vaguely imagined
a hospital and had imagined Benenden in it, but he had
really thought of him as being still behind a counter, the
familiar half-length figure, beginning about the second
button of the waistcoat and then going on to the old-
fashioned high collar and stiff front (with no tie), the
straggling sandy-grey beard and the thick glasses. In
all the time he had known him, Mr. Smeeth had never
once seen Benenden away from his counter; and for all
he knew to the contrary, Benenden might have had no
legs at all. Now, as he approached the white-enamelled
iron bed, he saw less of Benenden than ever, but what he
did see gave him a shock. It was not that Benenden
looked very ill (for that matter, he had never looked very
well), but simply that he looked quite different. Mr.
Smeeth wanted to laugh. That head of Benenden's above
the sheet looked idiotic. It was as if Benenden had taken
to wild joking.

"Hello, Mr. Benenden. Your niece in the shop
suggested I might call and see you. How are you feeling
now?"

The enormous eyes behind the glasses had slowly
swivelled round, and now there was a slow faint creasing
of the face that did duty for a smile. "Very pleased to