too, on the mantel-piece, reflected from the glass above it, right on
to the white statuette of the Venus of Milo that supported a
photograph of a dancing Poppy--Poppy, who laughed in the face of the
goddess with insatiable impudence, and flung to the immortal forehead
the flick of her shameless foot. White and austere gleamed the Venus
(if Venus she be, for some say she is a Wingless Victory, and Rickman,
when sober, inclined to that opinion). White and austere gleamed the
little camp-bed in the corner. He ignored Mr. Spinks' discreet
suggestion. He wasn't going to undress to please Spinks or anybody.
He'd see Spinks in another world first. He wasn't going to bed like a
potman; he was going to sit up like a poet and write. That's what he
was going to do. This was his study.

With shaking hands he lit the lamp on his study table; the wick
sputtered, and the light in his head jigged horribly with the jigging
of the flame. It was as if he was being stabbed with little knives of
light.

He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, threw open his window
and leaned out into the pure regenerating night. Spinks sat down on a
chair and watched him, his fresh, handsome face clouded with anxiety.
He adored Rickman sober; but for Rickman drunk he had a curious
yearning affection. If anything, he preferred him in that state. It
seemed to bring him nearer to him. Spinks had never been drunk in his
life, but that was his feeling.

Rickman laid his arms upon the window sill and his head upon his arms.

"'The blessed damozel leaned out,'" he said (the idea in his mind
being that _he_ was a blessed damozel).