The tone in which he said this was so childlike in its eagerness that Wolf felt a sudden unexpected tenderness for the queer man, quite different from his previous amused indulgence. “How they must have outraged his life-illusion among them all!” he thought.

“But your mother adores your poetry; and your brother likes it too, doesn’t he?”

Jason gave him one deep, slow, penetrating look that was like the opening of a sluice-gate.

“My mother⁠ ⁠… my brother⁠ ⁠…” And the man shrugged his shoulders as if Wolf had referred to the activities of water-flies in relation to human affairs.

“They don’t understand it, you mean? They don’t get its significance, for all their devotion? Well, I think I realize what you suffer from. But I don’t suppose I shall understand it either.”

“I’ve written lately⁠ ⁠… very lately⁠ ⁠… last night, in fact⁠—a poem to him.”