‘I am dying,’ said William Wagner Bird on the night of August 13th, turning his face towards the wall for privacy, sighing at the little bunches of forget-me-not on the wallpaper. He felt his body a burden in the bed, a thing he did not know. His feet seemed far away, and it came to him abruptly that he was aware of his feet in an intellectual way only.

He in his time had sought these people out, selecting them and rejecting others. He sought them, he said, that they in each other might catch some telling reflection of themselves, and that he might see that happen and make what he wished of it. ‘I rose from my desk, most down-trodden of men. I smote adversity to make myself a God to others.’

‘There will be a lot of work in this, straightening the place out. Will you be available, Mr Studdy? What work is it you do at present?’
‘I’m concerned with a religious organization.’ As he spoke he determined to write no more letters, nor to fritter away his time following people about. He resolved to become a new man, to turn his talents to the success of his newest and most promising venture.