The Poem

110 MYSTERIES: and I am so little, it is so pure and I am so dull of un- derstanding. When I write I feel as it were the breath of an angel covering me with holiness, and I know— then! But now—I only write mechanically. I force myself. To-day I tore up all I wrote last night. ESME. | Let us ask God to send you the angel, shall we? [They kneel, with arms intertwined, at the open window, and bow their heads silently. Vaughan also prays, with arms outspread in blessing. Curtain. SCENE III. Six months later. The dining-room. Percy, Vaughan, Esmé at dinner. Enter Butler. BUTLER. F you please, sir, a gentleman has called; he says he must see you at once. ; VAUGHAN. Have you told him we are at dinner? BUTLER. Yes, sir; but he would not take that; begging your