“ Four days more,” he answered, thrilling with 
excitement, “ and all my dreams will come true—
until I wake.  But you can serve me, if indeed——
Did you hear me spouting poetry ?” 
I nodded, and lit my pipe.  He watched me 
narrowly while the match illuminated my face. 
“ What poetry ?” 
I told him Shelley. 
“ Do you read Ibsen ?” he queried, keening 
visibly.  After a moment’s pause :  “ He is the 
Sophocles of manners,” I said, rewarded royally 
for months of weary waiting.  My strange com-
panion sat up transfigured.  “ The Hour,” he 
murmured, 
“ and 
the 
Man !   .   .   .   What 
of 
Tennyson ?” 
“ Which Tennyson ?”  I asked. 
The answer seemed to please him. 
“ In Memoriam ?” he replied. 
“ He is a neurasthenic counter-jumper.” 
“ And of the Idylls ?” 
“ Sir Thomas did no wrong ; can impotence 
excuse his posthumous emasculation ?” 
 
 
vii