The vague shape of the thing he meant to say was already in his mind. But this silence, this isolation, the sudden withdrawal from that contagious crowd, this silent audience of gaping, glaring machines had not been in his anticipation. All his supports seemed withdrawn together; he seemed to have dropped into this suddenly, suddenly to have discovered himself. In a moment he was changed. He found that he now feared to be inadequate, he feared to be theatrical, he feared the quality of his voice, the quality of his wit, astonished, he turned to the man in yellow with a propitiatory gesture. “For a moment,” he said, “I must wait. I did not think it would be like this. I must think of the thing I have to say.”
While he was still hesitating there came an agitated messenger with news that the foremost aeroplanes were passing over Arawan.
“Arawan?” he said. “Where is that? But anyhow, they are coming. They will be here. When?”
“By twilight.”
“Great God! In only a few hours. What news of the flying stages?” he asked.
“The people of the south-west wards are ready.”
“Ready!”
He turned impatiently to the blank circles of the lenses again.
“I suppose it must be a sort of speech. Would to God I knew certainly the thing that should be said! Aeroplanes at Arawan! They must have started before the main fleet. And the people only ready! Surely...”
“Oh! what does it matter whether I speak well or ill?” he said, and felt the light grow brighter.