Checkley listened to the long vision, his expression neutral for its duration. When Horace finally finished, he said, rather abruptly, “delirium from Malaria, I would say.” There was a long pause, and August was relieved when Florence arrived with the coffee and biscuits.
“Is there anything else I could get you sirs—“ she began, eagerly looking upon the guest. Before Horace could answer, Checkley shooed her. “No. Leave us be and please close the door behind you. You’re dismissed for the rest of the night.” Once the servant was gone, he had a sip of his coffee, and noticed Horace was deathly quiet and very pale.
“No wallowing, I insist. It’s a poignant vision, really,” he started. “But I am no expert in them! I would venture to guess that some of what you described could be symbolisms. Change imagery for sure, with the dead.”