evoke a vision of white surf falling upon the beach, of tall trees
swaying in the breeze, of a brook dropping gently between green banks.

"Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle,"...

and then I stopped, for the door had opened. I unclosed my eyes to
see the office-boy gazing at me in astonishment. He was a well-trained
boy, and recovered himself in an instant.

"Your mail, sir," he said, laid it at my elbow, and went out.

I turned to the letters with an interest the reverse of lively. The
words of Henley's ballade were still running through my head--

"Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets,"...

Again I stopped, for again the door opened, and again the office-boy
appeared.

"Mr. Godfrey, sir," he said, and close upon the words, Jim Godfrey
entered, looking as fresh and cool and invigorating as the fountains
and brooks and pools I had been thinking of.

"How do you do it, Godfrey?" I asked, as he sat down.