Poor Derry! Apparently he could do nothing right. As Julia had said, his whole life had been one marvellous mistake after another.
Suddenly I introduced Julia's name.
He had not moved since his last words some minutes ago—that he thought God was more than a gland. The mews outside had come to life again. Cars were returning from suppers and the theatres; the glare of their headlights played palely about the upper part of his window-frame. He now turned his head and smiled.
"Good sort, Julia. But she's forgotten all about me long ago."
"What makes you think that?"
But instead of answering my question he went musingly on. "Funny, that. Dashed funny. I forgot all about Julia when I was making those notes."
"What notes?"
"Why, of the way I strike people. Those who remember me and those who don't. I remembered that doctor, who'd only seen me once, but Julia, who's known me practically all my life, I go and forget all about. In fact there's only about one other person who's known me as long as Julia has, and she absolutely failed to recognise me when I spoke to her a year or so ago."
My nerves became all jangled again. "Derry—how long ago?"
"About a year.... As you were. What am I talking about? Must stick to one scale of time, I suppose. I ought to have said about ten days ago."