These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which
followed were less easy to understand. Then came `Stark: A
Conte,' about a midinette who, so far as I could gather,
murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather
like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either
skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue
between Pan and St. Ursula--lacking, I felt, in `snap.' Next,
some aphorisms (entitled `Aphorismata' [spelled in Greek]).
Throughout, in fact, there was a great variety of form; and the
forms had evidently been wrought with much care. It was rather
the substance that eluded me. Was there, I wondered, any
substance at all? It did now occur to me: suppose Enoch
Soames was a fool! Up cropped a rival hypothesis: suppose _I_
was! I inclined to give Soames the benefit of the doubt. I had
read `L'Apres-midi d'un Faune' without extracting a glimmer of
meaning. Yet Mallarme--of course--was a Master. How was I
to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music
in his prose, not indeed arresting, but perhaps, I thought,
haunting, and laden perhaps with meanings as deep as
Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind.

And I looked forward to them with positive impatience after I
had had a second meeting with him. This was on an evening in
January. Going into the aforesaid domino room, I passed a table
at which sat a pale man with an open book before him. He
looked from his book to me, and I looked back over my
shoulder with a vague sense that I ought to have recognised him.
I returned to pay my respects. After exchanging a few words, I
said with a glance to the open book, `I see I am interrupting
you,' and was about to pass on, but `I prefer,' Soames replied in