But the evening at the ballet was only the beginning of his slow diminishing. Sometimes I'd walk into a room and catch him reading the newspaper without his nose, which tended to fade off into his mustache whenever he was fatigued, or in the early morning at the breakfast table I'd notice that Gifford was blurry, as though the hot coffee and the summer heat were causing him to melt.

    "Whatever are you thinking of when you go off like that?" I demanded.