“You look ill,” said Aristides.
“I have drunk too much, I think. I drank on an empty stomach. Help me out into the cooler air. All the air here has been used up: it has been through a hundred lungs.”
But Aristides did not move to help him. For a full minute there was silence: a great silence emphasized by the drip-drip-drip of water within the circular room. Georges was dimly aware of the water vapour rising from the wet marble floor, and some strange inquiring part of his brain wondered why the vapour made no noise as it floated upwards through the dome. At length his wandering eyes were caught and held by the eyes of Aristides, whose glance was sharp and poisoned. Georges recoiled a little.
“Surely I have seen you before?” he asked.
“It is possible. It is likely. But I do not remember our meeting.... Does Your Highness feel better now?”
“A little. But I want air.”
And then Georges suddenly began to tremble, for as he stopped speaking he became blindingly aware of the identity of his masseur. His physical cowardice was astonishing, but he had a bold, sinewy mind, and he summoned all its subtlety to his aid.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, with a welcoming smile, “you’re Kronothos! How extraordinary! But I thought all along, somehow, that I knew you.”
He held out his hand with a great gesture of pleasure. Aristides took it, and with his own communicated to Georges an indefinable feeling of impending woe. He did not speak.
“But you must have recognized me!” urged Georges. “Why did you not say so? We were friends once, you know.”