And to drop even a hint of his plans between the
courses at breakfast would have been desecration.
Sunset followed sunset, night followed night. The stripling April had
made room for the lady May. The play was almost completed in Ernest's
mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of
the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper
would demand all his powers. For, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely
evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to
seize them.
The day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in
the solitude of the Palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final
task.
He told Reginald of his intention, but met with little response.
Reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had
worked late at night.
"You must be frightfully busy?" Ernest asked, with genuine concern.
"So I am," Reginald replied. "I always work in a white heat. I am
restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace until I have given
utterance to all that clamours after birth.
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