And that poem! Why the hell had he written it? Why had he sent it to The Argus . He had had it typed on Thursday, and sent it off by special messenger on Friday, just in time for the October number. The Argus liked long poems. What a fool he had been! Or had he? He knew very well himself what it all meant⁠—but how could anyone else connect it with life⁠—with Emily Gaunt? No, that was all right. And it was damned good stuff! He was glad he had sent it. It would go down well. And another day would have meant missing the October number.

Yes, it was damned good stuff! He stood at the Whittakers’ door, turning over in his head some favourite lines from Gelert’s speech in the forest. Damned good! As he thought how excellent it was, there was a curious sensation of tingling and contraction in the flesh of his body and the back of his legs.