“If it only gets white when it’s dead,” argued Wolf obstinately, “I don’t think it’s much of a subject. I like the idea of seaweed being white in the way chalk is white or daisies are white; but if it just fades and bleaches⁠ ⁠… I don’t think much of that.”

“It’s no good abusing me before you’ve heard it,” said Jason; “but, of course, we know this business of reading our writings is what your friend Darnley would call impolite.”

“Go on, man, go on!” cried Wolf. “I’m listening.”

And the poet began to read.

“White Seaweed”⁠ ⁠…

He repeated these words a second time, gathering his energy.

“White Seaweed.”