And incompleteness of
any sort leads to trouble. Axel Heyst ought not to have cared for his
letters--or whatever it was that brought him out after something more
than a year and a half in Samburan. But it was of no use. He had not the
hermit's vocation! That was the trouble, it seems.
Be this as it may, he suddenly reappeared in the world, broad chest,
bald forehead, long moustaches, polite manner, and all--the complete
Heyst, even to the kindly sunken eyes on which there still rested the
shadow of Morrison's death. Naturally, it was Davidson who had given him
a lift out of his forsaken island. There were no other opportunities,
unless some native craft were passing by--a very remote and
unsatisfactory chance to wait for. Yes, he came out with Davidson, to
whom he volunteered the statement that it was only for a short time--a
few days, no more. He meant to go back to Samburan.
Davidson expressing his horror and incredulity of such foolishness,
Heyst explained that when the company came into being he had his few
belongings sent out from Europe.
To Davidson, as to any of us, the idea of Heyst, the wandering drifting,
unattached Heyst, having any belongings of the sort that can furnish a
house was startlingly novel. It was grotesquely fantastic. It was like a
bird owning real property.
"Belongings? Do you mean chairs and tables?" Davidson asked with
unconcealed astonishment.
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