blue envelope of the day, and through our white tissue, and we can't
stop it, once we've begun to leak.'

'What do you mean by "leak"?' asked Siegmund.

'Goodness knows--I talk through my hat. But once you've got a bit tired
of the house, you glue your nose to the windowpane, and stare for the
dark--as you were doing.'

'But, to use your metaphor, I'm not tired of the House--if you mean
Life,' said Siegmund.

'Praise God! I've met a poet who's not afraid of having his pocket
picked--or his soul, or his brain!' said the stranger, throwing his head
back in a brilliant smile, his eyes dilated.

'I don't know what you mean, sir,' said Siegmund, very quietly, with a
strong fear and a fascination opposing each other in his heart.

'You're not tired of the House, but of your own particular room-say,
suite of rooms--'

'Tomorrow I am turned out of this "blue room",' said Siegmund with a wry
smile. The other looked at him seriously.

'Dear Lord!' exclaimed Hampson; then: 'Do you remember Flaubert's saint,
who laid naked against a leper? I could _not_ do it.'

'Nor I,' shuddered Siegmund.