Herbert George Wells

The Time Machine Herbert George Wells

The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding a reconditematter to us. His pale grey eyes shone and twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed andanimated. The fire burnt brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent lights in the lilies ofsilver caught the bubbles that flashed and passed in our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and caressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that luxuriousafter-dinner atmosphere, when thought runs gracefully free of the trammels of precision. And heput it to us in this way-marking the points with a lean forefinger-as we sat and lazily admiredhis earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it) and his fecundity