And John had answered truthfully: "Oh, they just said things. But
the theatre's always full--and that's the only test." And just now, as he crossed the crowded Circus to catch his 'bus, it
chanced that his mind (having glimpsed an advertisement) was full of
this particular Play, or, rather, of the effect it had produced upon
him at the time. For it had _thrilled_ him--inexplicably: with its
marvellous speculative hint, its big audacity, its alert and spiritual
beauty.... Thought plunged to find something--plunged after this
bizarre suggestion of a bigger universe, after this quasi-jocular
suggestion that man is not the only--then dashed full-tilt against
a sentence that memory thrust beneath his nose: "Science does _not_
exhaust the Universe"--and at the same time dashed full-tilt against
destruction of another kind as well...! How it happened, he never exactly knew. He saw a Monster glaring
at him with eyes of blazing fire. It was horrible! It rushed upon
him. He dodged.... Another Monster met him round the corner. Both
came at him simultaneously.... He dodged again--a leap that might
have cleared a hurdle easily, but was too late. Between the pair of
them--his heart literally in his gullet--he was mercilessly caught....
Bones crunched.... There was a soft sensation, icy cold and hot as
fire. Horns and voices roared. Battering-rams he saw, and a carapace
of iron.... Then dazzling light.... "Always _face_ the traffic!" he
remembered with a frantic yell--and, by some extraordinary luck,
escaped miraculously on to the opposite pavement.... There was no doubt about it. By the skin of his teeth he had dodged
a rather ugly death. First ... he felt for his presents--all were
safe. And then, instead of congratulating himself and taking breath,
he hurried homewards--_on foot_, which proved that his mind had lost
control a bit!--thinking only how disappointed the wife and children
would have been if--if anything had happened.... Another thing he
realised, oddly enough, was that he no longer really _loved_ his wife,
but had only great affection for her. What made him think of that,
Heaven only knows, but he _did_ think of it. He was an honest man
without pretence. This came as a discovery somehow. He turned a moment,
and saw the crowd gathered about the entangled taxicabs, policemen's
helmets gleaming in the lights of the shop windows ... then hurried on
again, his thoughts full of the joy his presents would give ... of the
scampering children ... and of his wife--bless her silly heart!--eyeing
the mysterious parcels....

And, though he never could explain _how_, he presently stood at the
door of the jail-like building that contained his flat, having walked
the whole three miles! His thoughts had been so busy and absorbed that
he had hardly noticed the length of weary trudge.... "Besides," he
reflected, thinking of the narrow escape, "I've had a nasty shock. It was a d----d near thing, now I come to think of it...." He did
feel a bit shaky and bewildered.... Yet, at the same time, he felt
extraordinarily jolly and light-hearted.... He counted his Christmas parcels ... hugged himself in anticipatory
joy ... and let himself in swiftly with his latchkey. "I'm late," he
realised, "but when she sees the brown-paper parcels, she'll forget
to say a word. God bless the old faithful soul." And he softly used
the key a second time and entered his flat on tiptoe.... In his mind
was the master impulse of that afternoon--the pleasure these Christmas
presents would give his wife and children.... He heard a noise. He hung up hat and coat in the pokey vestibule (they
never called it "hall") and moved softly towards the parlour door,
holding the packages behind him. Only of them he thought, not of
himself--of his family, that is, not of the packages. Pushing the door
cunningly ajar, he peeped in slyly. To his amazement, the room was full
of people! He withdrew quickly, wondering what it meant. A party? And
without his knowing about it! Extraordinary!... Keen disappointment
came over him. But, as he stepped back, the vestibule, he saw, was full
of people too. He was uncommonly surprised, yet somehow not surprised at all. People
were congratulating him. There was a perfect mob of them. Moreover, he
knew them all--vaguely remembered them, at least. And they all knew him. "Isn't it a game?" laughed some one, patting him on the back. "_They_
haven't the least idea...!" And the speaker--it was old John Palmer, the bookkeeper at the
office--emphasised the "they." "Not the least idea," he answered with a smile, saying something he
didn't understand, yet knew was right. His face, apparently, showed the utter bewilderment he felt. The shock
of the collision had been greater than he realised evidently. His mind
was wandering.... Possibly! Only the odd thing was--he had never felt
so clear-headed in his life. Ten thousand things grew simple suddenly. But, how thickly these people pressed about him, and how--familiarly! "My parcels," he said, joyously pushing his way across the throng. "These are Christmas presents I've bought for them." He nodded toward
the room. "I've saved for weeks--stopped cigars and billiards and--and
several other good things--to buy them." "Good man!" said Palmer with a happy laugh. "It's the heart that
counts." Mudbury looked at him. Palmer had said an amazing truth, only--people
would hardly understand and believe him.... Would they? "Eh?" he asked, feeling stuffed and stupid, muddled somewhere between
two meanings, one of which was gorgeous and the other stupid beyond
belief. "If you _please_, Mr. Mudbury, step inside. They are expecting you,"
said a kindly, pompous voice. And, turning sharply, he met the gentle,
foolish eyes of Sir James Epiphany, a director of the Bank where he
worked. The effect of the voice was instantaneous from long habit. "They are?" he smiled from his heart, and advanced as from the custom
of many years. Oh, how happy and gay he felt! His affection for his
wife was real. Romance, indeed, had gone, but he needed her--and she
needed him. And the children--Milly, Bill, and Jean--he deeply loved
them. Life _was_ worth living indeed! In the room was a crowd, but--an astounding silence. John Mudbury
looked round him. He advanced towards his wife, who sat in the corner
arm-chair with Milly on her knee. A lot of people talked and moved
about. Momentarily the crowd increased. He stood in front of them--in
front of Milly and his wife. And he spoke--holding out his packages. "It's Christmas Eve," he whispered shyly, "and I've--brought you
something--something for everybody. Look!" He held the packages before
their eyes. "Of course, of course," said a voice behind him, "but you may hold them
out like that for a century. They'll _never_ see them!" "Of course they won't. But I love to do the old, sweet thing," replied
John Mudbury--then wondered with a gasp of stark amazement why he said
it. "_I_ think----" whispered Milly, staring round her.