Paul, in an agony of doubts and fears, lived a tempestuous life. To Edith he unburdened at length, and she, though utterly bewildered at these new things, was at least sympathetic and understanding. The burden of her cry was: "How can it be, dear?" but with the undercurrent--"You must face it"; "your father is wrong to denounce your honesty"; but "Don't be rash or act in a hurry." To her, then, the boy turned as to a new anchorage. (7) Donaldson and Strether saw the conflict only superficially; Manning more truly, but as a cynic. Thus one riotous night of a meeting of the new Literary Society, Paul had had something of an ovation. His little room--its text still on the wall and the cross over the writing bureau in the corner--was beginning to reflect the growth of his artistic sense. Landseer's pictures had gone, and in their place hung some engravings, rescued from old books dug out of the boxes in Charing Cross Road, in neat ebony frames. A "Falkland" graced one side of the mantelshelf, and quite a good "Melanchthon" by Holl the other. The room was lit with candles, and tobacco smoke drifted thickly, since a childish rule of the society enforced smoking out of churchwardens. Paul, as president, had been overruled, and now always smoked one pipe. On this particular occasion, he was smoking a second in great exultation, having just read his last and lengthiest poetical effort to a really appreciative audience. Not without significance, it dealt with an Indian legend of the search for the white bird of truth. "By Jove, damned good," burst out Donaldson. "Paul, you've the makings of a real poet. What do you think, Manning?" "He may do stuff worth reading yet, if he'll take good advice." "Which is?" asked Paul. Manning lit a cigarette, cigarettes being allowed after the solemn preliminaries. "You won't like it, Kestern," he said, "but here it is. Burn that. Get rid of it. It's been good practice, and I should judge it's not at all bad, but don't sit tight to it. Anything good in it will stick and come out again; the second and third rate had better go up in smoke." "Oh, cheese it all, Manning! Show it to Tressor and get it pushed into some magazine"; and chorus of assent from the members backed Donaldson up. Manning shook his head. "I know I'm right," he said. "Pass the cake, Strether." Strether disengaged his long form from the chair he occupied, and passed it. "More coffee?" he grunted at Paul. Paul was watching Manning closely. Then, suddenly: "You are right," he said, and with a swift movement tore the thing in halves. Donaldson swore. "Well, I'm damned!" put in a member. "You silly blighter!" Manning finished his cake, and stood up. He looked round amusedly, stretching himself. "I reckon that finishes the sitting anyway," he said. "Come over to my rooms a little later, Kestern, will you? Good-night, you people."