"I am too near her," he thought, moving a little further on the
seat. He was afraid in the revulsion of feeling of flinging
himself on her hands, which were lying on her lap, and covering
them with kisses. He was afraid. Nothing, nothing could shake
that spell--not if she were ever so false, stupid, or degraded.
She was fate itself. The extent of his misfortune plunged him in
such a stupor that he failed at first to hear the sound of voices
and footsteps inside the drawing-room. Willie had come home--and
the Editor was with him.

They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, and then pulling
themselves together stood still, surprising--and as if themselves
surprised.



CHAPTER VII



They had been feasting a poet from the bush, the latest discovery
of the Editor. Such discoveries were the business, the vocation,
the pride and delight of the only apostle of letters in the
hemisphere, the solitary patron of culture, the Slave of the Lamp--
as he subscribed himself at the bottom of the weekly literary page
of his paper. He had had no difficulty in persuading the virtuous
Willie (who had festive instincts) to help in the good work, and
now they had left the poet lying asleep on the hearthrug of the
editorial room and had rushed to the Dunster mansion wildly. The
Editor had another discovery to announce. Swaying a little where