[V]
THE days followed each other as monotonously as long-distance runners with their numbers on their backs like the leaves of a calendar.
Lewis no longer went anywhere and refused all invitations. He catalogued his books. He gnawed the ends of his pencils and bit through his pipes. He got pleasure out of wasting time. "I am out of work," he said, "and I am learning to be lazy."
When Martial expressed surprise, asking him: "Are you preparing for your examination of conscience?"
Lewis replied: "I have work to do for which I am not sufficiently equipped."
"What work?"
"Indulgence, patience and the confutation of errors."
"Poor old chap," decided Martial, "I don't know who it is, but you've certainly got it badly this time."
[VI]
"BY the way," said Lewis, without guarding against the association of ideas, "what do you think of that?" And he held out to Martial a telegram that had come from Pastafina that morning.