"The third of May, a month's difference," said Simon.
"True, but it is less a question of a month more or less than of season. Last early May and April end were abnormally fine. I remember that, for I had to go to Switzerland. This May has been wretched. Then during the last week we have had this burst of splendid weather—weather that makes me feel young again."
"It doesn't me," said Simon.
"No, but it has evidently—at least probably—had that effect on your other 'me.' The something that urges the return of the swallow has acted in your subconsciousness with the coming of springlike weather just as last year."
"Damn swallows!" cried Simon, rising up and pacing the floor. "Suppose this thing lets me in for another five thousand, and Lord knows what else? Oppenshaw," wheeling suddenly, "is nothing to be done? How can I stop it?"
"Well," said Oppenshaw, "quite frankly, I think that the best means is the exercise of your own will-power. You might, of course, take the notes back to the bank and instruct them not to allow you to draw any more money for, say, a month—but that would be unpleasant."
"Impossible!"
"You might, again, put yourself under restraint. I could do that for you."
"Put myself in a mad-house?"
"No, no—a nursing home."