But to return to Lawrence.
“To blot out the Singapore funeral,” he said, “I painted quickly. Makes me concentrate. Got so interested I stopped only on account of bad light. Put on my hat and left the studio—with Pedro—for a walk. Fresh air clears the brain. Must have been exhausted, for I walked along without seeing. Just followed Pedro, I suppose. A bend in the road—and I woke up—galvanized with terror.
“Before me stood the entrance to a graveyard. The stones bristled ghostly in the twilight. I halted—alert.”
The stem of the glass, which Lawrence nervously had been twirling, broke, and his unfinished cocktail spilled upon the table.
“I couldn’t go on—on through that forest of spectral marble. Pedro continued to walk. Was some distance ahead before he noticed I had stopped. He turned and told me to come along. I refused. He laughed—a derisive laugh—then spit out a single word—‘Coward!’
“I’ve been through jungles in India. Gone deep into China where no white man had ever been. Know Calcutta—Port Said—explored the worst slums of the world—and I had never been called a coward before.
“‘You don’t understand, Pedro—I can’t, I can’t go on!’ He laughed again—like a hyena.
“‘Yes,’ Pedro said, a coward. How they will laugh—when I tell!’