’For a time my brain went stagnant.  Presently I got up and came through the passage here, limping, because my heel was still painful, and feeling sorely begrimed.  I saw the Pall Mall Gazette on the table by the door.  I found the date was indeed to-day, and looking at the timepiece, saw the hour was almost eight o’clock.  I heard your voices and the clatter of plates.  I hesitated—­I felt so sick and weak.  Then I sniffed good wholesome meat, and opened the door on you.  You know the rest.  I washed, and dined, and now I am telling you the story.

‘I know,’ he said, after a pause, ’that all this will be absolutely incredible to you.  To me the one incredible thing is that I am here 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?’

‘Well——­’

‘I thought not.’

The Time Traveller turned to us.  ‘Where are the matches?’ he said.  He lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing.  ’To tell you the truth ...  I hardly believe it myself....  And yet...’

His eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon the little table.  Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I saw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.

The Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers.  ‘The gynaeceum’s odd,’ he said.  The Psychologist leant forward to see, holding out his hand for a specimen.

‘I’m hanged if it isn’t a quarter to one,’ said the Journalist.  ‘How shall we get home?’

‘Plenty of cabs at the station,’ said the Psychologist.

‘It’s a curious thing,’ said the Medical Man; ’but I certainly don’t know the natural order of these flowers.  May I have them?’

The Time Traveller hesitated.  Then suddenly:  ‘Certainly not.’