Dick opened his eyes. A liveried footman stood over his chair, and was addressing him.
'Eh? Did I ring? Yes, you may bring me a glass of liqueur brandy. As quickly as possible, if you please; to tell the truth, George, I'm not feeling very well.'
The man started at hearing his name, but made no motion to obey the order.
'I beg your pardon, sir, but the secretary wishes to see you in his room.'
'The secretary? Mr Hood? Yes, certainly.' Dick rose. 'I—I am afraid you must give me your arm, please. A giddiness—the ship's motion, I suppose.'
The secretary was standing at his door in the great vestibule as Dick came down the staircase on the man's arm.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'but may I have your name? The porter does not recognise you, and I fear that I am equally at fault.'
'My name?'—with the same gesture that Mr Markham had used in the little back parlour, Dick passed a hand over his eyes. He laughed, and even to his own ears the laugh sounded vacant, foolish.
'Are you a member of the club, sir?'
'I—I thought I was.' The marble pillars of the atrium were swaying about him like painted cloths, the tesselated pavement heaving and rocking at his feet. 'Abominably stupid of me,' he muttered, 'unpardonable, you must think.'