But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!

No future anthology of English wit can be complete without that
exquisite bit of fooling.

Of such a sort, to use Mr. Mosher's phrase, was Rupert Chawner Brooke,
"the latest and greatest of young Englishmen."




THE MAN


The big room was very still. Outside, beneath a thin, cold drizzle, the
first tinge of green showed on the broad lawn. The crocuses were
beginning to thrust their spears through the sodden mold. One of the
long French windows stood ajar, and in the air that slipped through was
a clean, moist whiff of coming spring. It was the end of March.

In the leather armchair by the wide, flat desk sat a man. His chin was
on his chest; the lowered head and the droop of the broad, spare
shoulders showed the impact of some heavy burden. His clothes were
gray--a trim, neatly cut business suit; his hair was gray; his gray-blue
eyes were sombre. In the gathering dusk he seemed only a darker shadow
in the padded chair. His right hand--the long, firm, nervous hand of a
scholar--rested on the blotting pad. A silver pen had slipped from his
fingers as he sat in thought. On the desk lay some typed sheets which he
was revising.