In this hour of his utmost failure, with blood and disaster upon his hands, and the rich promise of still more horrible disaster, with the gigantic destinies of the world towering and toppling over him, he was capable of a belief that by sheer exertion of his voice, by explaining and qualifying and restating, he might yet reconstitute his power.

He was puzzled and distressed no doubt, fatigued and suffering, but if only he could keep up, if only he could keep talking-- As he talked he seemed to Redwood to advance and recede, to dilate and contract.

Redwood's share of the talk was of the most subsidiary sort, wedges as it were suddenly thrust in.

"That's all nonsense." "No." "It's no use suggesting that." "Then why did you begin ?" It is doubtful if Caterham really heard him at all.

Round such interpolations Caterham's speech flowed indeed like some swift stream about a rock.