The sound went through him like a physical pain. He sank back into his chair, and closed his eyes. His heart was beating as after a mighty physical exertion. He knew vaguely that a calamity had befallen him; he could vaguely imagine the splinters of shattered glass at his feet. But his physical prostration was so great as to obliterate, to neutralise, emotion. He felt very cold. He felt that he was being hurried along with terrible speed through darkness and cold air. There was the continuous roar of rapid motion in his ears, a faint, dizzy bewilderment in his head. He felt that he was trying to catch hold of things, to stop his progress, but his hands closed upon emptiness; that he was trying to call out for help, but he could make no sound. On--on--on, he was being whirled through some immeasurable abyss of space. * * * * * "Ah, yes, he's dead, quite dead," the doctor said. "He has been dead some hours. He must have passed away peacefully sitting here in his chair." "Poor gentleman," said the porter's wife. "And a broken looking-glass beside him. Oh, it's a sure sign, a broken looking-glass." Portrait of a Lady By Will Rothenstein _Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ [Illustration: Portrait of a Lady] Two Poems By Edmund Gosse I--Alere Flammam To A. C. B. In ancient Rome, the secret fire,-- An intimate and holy thing,-- Was guarded by a tender choir Of kindred maidens in a ring; Deep, deep within the house it lay, No stranger ever gazed thereon, But, flickering still by night and day, The beacon of the house, it shone; Thro' birth and death, from age to age, It passed, a quenchless heritage; And there were hymns of mystic tone Sung round about the family flame, Beyond the threshold all unknown, Fast-welded to an ancient name; There sacrificed the sire as priest, Before that altar, none but he, Alone he spread the solemn feast For a most secret deity; He knew the god had once been sire, And served the same memorial fire. Ah! so, untouched by windy roar Of public issues loud and long, The Poet holds the sacred door, And guards the glowing coal of song; Not his to grasp at praise or blame, Red gold, or crowns beneath the sun, His only pride to tend the flame That Homer and that Virgil won, Retain the rite, preserve the act, And pass the worship on intact. Before the shrine at last he falls; The crowd rush in, a chattering band But, ere he fades in death, he calls Another priest to ward the brand; He, with a gesture of disdain, Flings back the ringing brazen gate, Reproves, repressing, the profane, And feeds the flame in primal state; Content to toil and fade in turn, If still the sacred embers burn. II--A Dream of November