Over there, there had been nothing but very slow, fading minutes; now there was a past, a future.

It was as if I stood between them in a cleft of unscalable rocks.
I went about mechanically, made arrangements for my housing, moved in and out of rooms in the enormous mausoleum of a club that was all the home I had, in a sort of stupor.

Suddenly I remembered that I had been thinking of something; that she had been talking of Churchill.

I had had a letter from him on the morning of the day before.

When I read it, Churchill and his "_Cromwell_" had risen in my mind like preposterous phantoms; the one as unreal as the other--as alien.