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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.
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