4&& ANGEL PAVEMENT

see you, Mr. Smeeth. Very good of you to call" This
came in tiny high explosions of sound, as if Benenden'-s
ordinary tones had been raised an octave or two and
only allowed to emerge in separate little puffs.

Mr. Smeeth could see that he really was ill. Every
movement of the face and his speech were so slow, as if
they had to be thought out first. And though he had
been away from his shop such a little time, he gave the
impression that he had been away for years and years,
had gone round and round the world, had even changed
his nationality. He did not belong any more to the
workers and bustlers and movers about. He was now a
citizen of this inner city.

"Not a bit," said Mr. Smeeth, wanting to be cheerful
and hearty, but not outrageously so, "not a bit. I'm
only too glad. I've missed you at the shop. Quite a
shock to hear what had happened to you. How are you
feeling then?"

"Not good, Mr. Smeeth. No, not good. Baddish."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Benenden. I suppose
that accident of yours was a shock to the system, eh?"

"That was nothing, that wasn't/' replied Benenden,
speaking in a slow, oracular fashion. 'They say there's
all sorts o' things wrong with me. Heart bad. Kidneys
bad. Inside all wrong. They don't tell me much.
When they do, they think they're teaching me some-
thing." The eyes behind the thick glasses seemed to
gleam with pride. "They're not teaching me anything.
I could have told 'em that, Mr. Smeeth. I could have
told 'em that-yes, and a bit more-a long time since.
I've known all about it for years, years and years."

"You don't say so!" Mr. Smeeth looked concerned.

' Yes, I've known it for years. They can't tell me any-