discord. But I did not take my failure as wholly incompatible
with a meaning in Soames' mind. Might it not rather indicate
the depth of his meaning? As for the craftsmanship, `rouged
with rust' seemed to me a fine stroke, and `nor not' instead of
`and' had a curious felicity. I wondered who the Young Woman
was, and what she had made of it all. I sadly suspect that
Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet, even
now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and
reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence.
Soames was an artist--in so far as he was anything, poor fellow!

It seemed to me, when first I read `Fungoids,' that, oddly
enough, the Diabolistic side of him was the best. Diabolism
seemed to be a cheerful, even a wholesome, influence in his life.


NOCTURNE.

Round and round the shutter'd Square
I stroll'd with the Devil's arm in mine.
No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there
And the ring of his laughter and mine.
We had drunk black wine.

I scream'd, `I will race you, Master!'
`What matter,' he shriek'd, `to-night
Which of us runs the faster?
There is nothing to fear to-night
In the foul moon's light!'