"A hell of a difference," he muttered.
"Do you always hold it at the same distance?"
His whole mind seemed to wriggle. "I haven't, if you must know. But why drag all this up again? I offered to tell you before but you wouldn't listen."
"I hadn't the reason then that I have now. Do you—move it about deliberately?"
"I have to some extent. I told you that. I did by an effort of will when I came here for a day's rest."
"A day's rest?... You're not going back to that book. You know that better than I do. That book's all past and done with. Something's happened since."
I saw him turn pale. "What do you mean?" he asked almost inaudibly.
"You came here on Friday midday. I've watched you carefully ever since. Let's—well, let's stick to terms of the flash-lamp. Except for a quarter of an hour or so at breakfast yesterday morning, when you talked about your book, you've had that lamp steadily rather close to the edge of the table. Isn't that so?"
"I tell you a holiday's a holiday," he said faintly.
"Let me go on. I want to know how close that lamp has been. The closer you hold it the more ecstatically you experience, you know. Very well. Now has there been a moment since yesterday when ... you've held it as close as you could get it?"