I ascribe the staleness of American poetry to the
griddle-cakes of our Puritan ancestors. I am sorry we cannot go deeper
into the subject at present. But I have an invitation to dinner where I
shall study, experimentally, the influence of French sauces on my
versification."
"Good-bye."
"Au revoir." And, with a wave of the hand, Reginald left the room.
When the door had closed behind him, Ernest's thoughts took a more
serious turn. The tone of light bantering in which the preceding
conversation had taken place had been assumed on his part. For the last
few weeks evil dreams had tortured his sleep and cast their shadow upon
his waking hours. They had ever increased in reality, in intensity and
in hideousness. Even now he could see the long, tapering fingers that
every night were groping in the windings of his brain. It was a
well-formed, manicured hand that seemed to reach under his skull,
carefully feeling its way through the myriad convolutions where thought
resides.
And, oh, the agony of it all! A human mind is not a thing of stone, but
alive, horribly alive to pain.
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