to-night in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces

and telling you these strange adventures.'

He looked at the Medical Man. 'No. I cannot expect you to believe

it. Take it as a lie--or a prophecy. Say I dreamed it in the

workshop. Consider I have been speculating upon the destinies of our

race until I have hatched this fiction. Treat my assertion of its

truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest. And taking

it as a story, what do you think of it?'

He took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap

with it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There was a momentary

stillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the

carpet. I took my eyes off the Time Traveller's face, and looked

round at his audience. They were in the dark, and little spots of

colour swam before them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in the

contemplation of our host. The Editor was looking hard at the end

of his cigar--the sixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. The

others, as far as I remember, were motionless.

The Editor stood up with a sigh. 'What a pity it is you're not

a writer of stories!' he said, putting his hand on the Time

Traveller's shoulder.

'You don't believe it?'

122

The Time Machine