Волны

           Thenhestretcheshishandforhiscopy-book--aneatvolumeboundinmottledpaper--andwritesfeverishlylonglinesofpoetry,inthemannerofwhomeverheadmiresmostatthemoment.

           ’ButIwanttolinger;toleanfromthewindow;tolisten.Thereagaincomesthatrollickingchorus.Theyarenowsmashingchina--thatalsoistheconvention.Thechorus,likeatorrentjumpingrocks,brutallyassaultingoldtrees,pourswithsplendidabandonmentheadlongoverprecipices.Ontheyroll;ontheygallop,afterhounds,afterfootballs;theypumpupanddownattachedtooarslikesacksofflour.Alldivisionsaremerged--theyactlikeoneman.ThegustyOctoberwindblowstheuproarinburstsofsoundandsilenceacrossthecourt.Nowagaintheyaresmashingthechina--thatistheconvention.Anold,unsteadywomancarryingabagtrotshomeunderthefire-redwindows.Sheishalfafraidthattheywillfallonherandtumbleherintothegutter.Yetshepausesasiftowarmherknobbed,herrheumatickyhandsatthebonfirewhichflaresawaywithstreamsofsparksandbitsofblownpaper.Theoldwomanpausesagainstthelitwindow.Acontrast.ThatIseeandNevilledoesnotsee;thatIfeelandNevilledoesnotfeel.HencehewillreachperfectionandIshallfailandshallleavenothingbehindmebutimperfectphraseslitteredwithsand.

           ’IthinkofLouisnow.