Jason’s voice sank; and that peculiar silence ensued which is fuller of electric crosscurrents than anything else in the world⁠ ⁠… the silence produced by the falling of the seminal drops of verbal creation⁠ ⁠… upon an alien mind.

“I like it very much,” murmured Wolf at last. And he thought to himself, “The beggar has his own peculiar imagination.”

Then he said aloud: “It’s one of your best poems, Jason. I don’t think it’s quite up to the ‘Slowworm of Lenty,’ but it does you credit and I congratulate you. What did you exactly mean by that last verse? Did you mean that there are people in the world whose wicked thoughts are aroused by white seaweed, or did you just mean the ordinary stupidity of human beings?”

“It’s not my business to explain what I mean,” said Jason. “It’s my business to write. I can see what you think. You think that I just string words together as they come into my head! It isn’t as easy to write a poem as you seem to imagine.”