XII
Necessity had made of Keith a fairly accurate human chronometer. In the
second year of his fugitivism he had lost his watch. At first it was
like losing an arm, a part of his brain, a living friend. From that
time until he came into possession of Conniston's timepiece he was his
own hour-glass and his own alarm clock. He became proficient.
Brady's bed and the Circe-breasted pillows that supported his head were
his undoing. The morning after Shan Tung's visit he awoke to find the
sun flooding in through the eastern window of his room, The warmth of
it as it fell full in his face, setting his eyes blinking, told him it
was too late. He guessed it was eight o'clock. When he fumbled his
watch out from under his pillow and looked at it, he found it was a
quarter past. He got up quietly, his mind swiftly aligning itself to
the happenings of yesterday. He stretched himself until his muscles
snapped, and his chest expanded with deep breaths of air from the
windows he had left open when he went to bed. He was fit. He was ready
for Shan Tung, for McDowell. And over this physical readiness there
surged the thrill of a glorious anticipation. It fairly staggered him
to discover how badly he wanted to see Mary Josephine again.
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