After a smiling pause—and good right had he to smile—he began anew, always tossing the last sheet over his shoulder:— “The sharp rain falling on the window-pane, Rattling sleet—the wind-blown sleet.” Then prose: “It is very cold of mornings when the wind brings rain and sleet with it. I heard the sleet on the window-pane outside, and thought of you, my darling. I am always thinking of you. I wish we could both run away like two lovers into the storm and get that little cottage by the sea which we are always thinking about, my own dear darling. We could sit and watch the sea beneath our windows. It would be a fairyland all of our own—a fairy sea—a fairy sea….” He stopped, raised his head, and listened. The steady drone of the Channel along the sea-front that had borne us company so long leaped up a note to the sudden fuller surge that signals the change from ebb to flood. It beat in like the change of step throughout an army—this renewed pulse of the sea—and filled our ears till they, accepting it, marked it no longer. “A fairyland for you and me Across the foam—beyond … A magic foam, a perilous sea.” He grunted again with effort and bit his underlip. My throat dried, but I dared not gulp to moisten it lest I should break the spell that was drawing him nearer and nearer to the high-water mark but two of the sons of Adam have reached. Remember that in all the millions permitted there are no more than five—five little lines—of which one can say: “These are the pure Magic. These are the clear Vision. The rest is only poetry.” And Mr. Shaynor was playing hot and cold with two of them! I vowed no unconscious thought of mine should influence the blindfold soul, and pinned myself desperately to the other three, repeating and re-repeating: A savage spot as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover. But though I believed my brain thus occupied, my every sense hung upon the writing under the dry, bony hand, all brown-fingered with chemicals and cigarette-smoke. Our windows fronting on the dangerous foam, (he wrote, after long, irresolute snatches), and then— “Our open casements facing desolate seas Forlorn—forlorn—” Here again his face grew peaked and anxious with that sense of loss I had first seen when the Power snatched him. But this time the agony was tenfold keener. As I watched it mounted like mercury in the tube. It lighted his face from within till I thought the visibly scourged soul must leap forth naked between his jaws, unable to endure. A drop of sweat trickled from my forehead down my nose and splashed on the back of my hand. “Our windows facing on the desolate seas And pearly foam of magic fairyland—” “Not yet—not yet,” he muttered, “wait a minute. _Please_ wait a minute. I shall get it then—” Our magic windows fronting on the sea, The dangerous foam of desolate seas … For aye. _Ouh_, my God!”