The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was busy working in his Richmond home.
Making adjustments, he contemplated on last night’s meal. He tightens yet another bolt and pours himself a large brandy.
Inconsolable, the Traveller ponders on the comments of his dinner guests. Contemporaries he had called his friends, men he had mistakenly thought would share his vision.
He pours himself another. Filby’s comments ring in his ears as he downs it in one.
Their lack of understanding of a fourth dimension of time astounded him, a “mere paradox” indeed!
Banging his fists on the mantelpiece the Traveller howls in frustration to the empty room and throws his glass against the fireplace. Sparks explode onto the carpet.
The fire spreads through the room, devastating the half built contraption.
“Damn it” the Traveller mutters under his breath, “if only I could turn back time”.