John went up into his garden and into his house and sat for a long time in a leather chair thinking and wondering. Stephen walked briskly in and whispered to the nurse. Mrs. Byrne was asleep.

He sat down at the sunny table in the study window, and drew out again the long poem. It was a good idea⁠—a very good idea. He read through what he had written; uneven, yes, but there was good stuff in it. A little polishing up wanted, a little correction. All that bit in the middle.⁠ ⁠… He scratched out “white” and scribbled over it “pale.” Yes, that was better. The next part, about the snow, was rather wordy⁠—wanted condensing; there were six lines, and four at least were very good⁠—but one of them must go⁠—perhaps two. He sharpened a pencil, looking out at the river.