iz aul. Thank hevvn we hav no Enoch Soameses amung us to-dai!


I found that by murmuring the words aloud (a device which I
commend to my reader) I was able to master them little by little. The
clearer they became, the greater was my bewilderment, my distress and
horror. The whole thing was a nightmare. Afar, the great grisly
background of what was in store for the poor dear art of letters; here, at
the table, fixing on me a gaze that made me hot all over, the poor fellow
whom--whom evidently--but no: whatever down-grade my character
might take in coming years, I should never be such a brute as to--

Again I examined the screed. "Immajnari." But here Soames was,
no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud"--what on earth was that?
(To this day I have never made out that word.) "It's all very--baffling," I
at length stammered.

Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me.

"Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out
correctly?"

"Quite."

"Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made--must
be going to make--some idiotic mistake. Look here Soames, you know
me better than to suppose that I-- After all, the name Max Beerbohm is
not at all an uncommon one, and there must be several Enoch Soameses
running around, or, rather, Enoch Soames is a name that might occur
to any one writing a story. And I don't write stories; I'm an essayist,