Years ago, at a small dinner party, Williams had overturned a glass of
water on the table-cloth; and whenever he thinks of that glass of water,
his heart beats furiously, his palate goes dry, and there is a horribly
empty feeling in his stomach. Once, on some similar occasion, Williams
fell into animated talk with a beautiful young woman. He spoke so
rapidly and so well that the rest of the company dropped their chat and
gathered about him. It was five minutes, perhaps, before he was aware of
what was going on. That night Williams walked the streets in an agony
of remorse. The recollection of the incident comes back to him every now
and then, and, whether he is alone at his desk, or in the theatre, or in
a Broadway crowd, he groans with pain. Take away such memories of the
past, Williams told us, and he knew of nothing in life that he is afraid
of.
Gordon's was quite a different case. The group about the table burst out
laughing when Gordon assured us that above all things else in this world
he is afraid of elephants. He agreed with Bowman that in the latitude of
New York City and under the zooelogic conditions prevailing here, it was
a preposterous fear to entertain.
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