“Yes--also pretty girls--cousins of his house, and perhaps not of his house. One kiss that he gives back again and remembers will cure all this nonsense, or else----” “Or else what? Remember he does not know that he knows.” “I know that. Or else, if nothing happens he will become immersed in the trade and the financial speculations like the rest. It must be so. You can see that it must be so. But the woman will come first, _I_ think.” There was a rap at the door, and Charlie charged in impetuously. He had been released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see that he had come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets. Charlie’s poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk about the galley. Grish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute. “I beg your pardon,” Charlie said, uneasily; “I didn’t know you had any one with you.” “I am going,” said Grish Chunder. He drew me into the lobby as he departed. “That is your man,” he said, quickly. “I tell you he will never speak all you wish. That is rot-bosh. But he would be most good to make to see things. Suppose now we pretend that it was only play”--I had never seen Grish Chunder so excited--“and pour the ink-pool into his hand. Eh, what do you think? I tell you that he could see _anything_ that a man could see. Let me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us very many things.” “He may be all you say, but I’m not going to trust him to your Gods and devils.” “It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he wakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before.” “That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You’d better go, Grish Chunder.” He went, declaring far down the staircase that it was throwing away my only chance of looking into the future. This left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering of hypnotized boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me do that. But I recognized Grish Chunder’s point of view and sympathized with it. “What a big black brute that was!” said Charlie, when I returned to him. “Well, look here, I’ve just done a poem; did it instead of playing dominoes after lunch. May I read it?” “Let me read it to myself.” “Then you miss the proper expression. Besides, you always make my things sound as if the rhymes were all wrong. “Read it aloud, then. You’re like the rest of ‘em.” Charlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average of his verses. He had been reading his book faithfully, but he was not pleased when I told him that I preferred my Longfellow undiluted with Charlie. Then we began to go through the MS. line by line; Charlie parrying every objection and correction with: “Yes, that may be better, but you don’t catch what I’m driving at.” Charlie was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet. There was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and “What’s that?” I said.