“To my mind, it is a very wonderful poem,” said the stricken man. “I don’t think I am morbidly impressionable--I hope I’m not--but that poem haunts me. It is even changing my outlook. It is an extravagant thing to say, but the feeling it leaves on one’s mind is that if a spectator of all time and all existence, a sort of Cosmostheorus, were to visit the planet at this moment, it is the way in which he might be expected to deliver himself.” “Neoplatonism of the usual brand, I presume.” There was a slight curl of a thin lip. “Of a very unusual brand, I assure you. It may be neoplatonism, and yet--no--one cannot give it a label. There is the Something Else behind it.” Once more the stricken man closed his eyes. “Yes, there is the Something Else. The thing infolds me like a dream, a passion. I feel it changing me.” “What is it called?” the vicar permitted himself to ask. “It is called ‘The Door.’” “Why ‘The Door’?” “Is there a Door still open for the human race?--that is the question the poem asks.” “A kind of mysticism, I presume?” “I wish I could persuade you to read the poem. To my mind it has exquisite beauty, and a profundity beyond anything I have ever read. It asks a question which at this moment admits of no answer. Everything hangs in the balance. But the theme of the poem is the future’s vital need, the keeping open, at all costs, of the Door.” Mr. Perry-Hennington shook his head sadly, but the gesture was not without indulgence. He was ready to make allowance for Brandon’s present state. The importance he attached to such lucubrations was quite unworthy of an ex-Fellow of Gamaliel, at any rate in the eyes of a former Fellow of All Saints, which under an old but convenient dispensation Mr. Perry-Hennington could claim to be. This morbid sensibility was a fruit of Brandon’s disease no doubt. But for his own part the vicar had neither time nor inclination for what could only be an ill-digested farrago of mystical moonshine. Unhappily nothing was left to poor Brandon now except to ease his mind as best he could. Such a mental condition was to be deplored. Yet the vicar fervently hoped that the canker would not bite too deep. “Do let me get the poem for you to read.” Brandon’s eyes were full of entreaty. “No, no, my dear fellow,” said the vicar gently. “I really haven’t time to give to such things just now. All one’s energies are absorbed in dealing with things as they are. I am quite prepared to take your word that the poem has literary merit--after all, you are a better judge of such matters than I am. But for those of us who have still our work to do, this is not a moment for poetic fancies or any other form of self-indulgence. Moreover, I must reserve my right to full liberty of action in a matter which is causing me grave concern.”