But the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him to
Manhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least,
completely obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that he
had suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, came
rushing back to him. He anticipated with delight his meeting with
Reginald Clarke. The personal attractiveness of the man had never seemed
so powerful to Ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time.
Reginald's letters were always brief. "Professional writers," he was
wont to say, "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their private
correspondence. They must turn it into copy." He longed to sit with the
master in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulously
falling through the stained window, and to discuss far into the
darkening night philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald's
voice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms.
There also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment.
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