South Wind

almost flippantly, as he

only a few days ago, that he would like to be a geologist; Marten had i

d had evaporated. How quickly e

ed his hand at poetry once more, after a long interval. Fo

reathed Tu

he snowy paper. "Or vine-wreathed Tuscany." He was content with th

nary success among his college friends; everybody liked him; he could say and do what he pleased. Was he not the idol of a select group who admired not only one another but also the satanism of Baudelaire, the hieratic obscenities of Beardsley, the mustiest Persian sage, the modernest American ballad-monger? He

d to the blustering winds of March. Life was no longer a hurdle in a steeple-chase to be taken at a gallop; it was a tangle of beastly facts that stared you in the face and refused to get out of the way. With growing years, during vacation, he came in contact with a new set of people; men w

not. But this explanation did not hold good for long. They were not bounders-not all of them. People not only dined with them: they asked the

himself. He became easily swayed and changeful in his moods. That sure touch in lyrics, as in daily life, was deserting him. His dreams were not coming true. He was not going to set the Thames on fire with poetry or anything else. He would probably be a failure. Aware of this weakness, he looked up to what was strong. Everything was different f

repe

nid

ogical temper this morning. The south wind seems to rot one's intelligence somehow. Hand it he

if by common consent, geology was forgotten. To outward appearances they were absorbed in the beauties of nature. Sirocco mists rose upwards, clustering thickly overhead and rolling in billowy formations among the dales. Sometimes a breath of wind would convulse their ranks, causing

wish I could talk better Latin, or Italian. Not that I should be running after them all day long. I've got other fish to fry. I've got to catal

ner

o take to these foreig

o

that your way of mortifying the flesh? Got a soul, eh? Get rid of it. The soul! That unhappy word has been the refuge of empty minds ever since the world began. You're just like a man I used to know at Newcastle. You can't think what an ass he was. A sort of eugenical crank, who talked about the City Beautiful where everybody wo

ly. I find I have too much roman

you call

ht awhile.

he reads attributes into them which they don't possess, or exaggerates those which they do posses

that last part. Glad for your sake, I mean. It shows that y

is t

moments, though you wouldn't believe it. I can be as

t condition. And talking Latin,

tances under which I become romantic, you'll find it a little di

lose attention, and then began to turn it round and round i

ralogy, are we? What do you

You can't call yourself a good citizen till you have learnt to despise it from the bo

gave it a fair tria

l bring it to life again. Who killed it? The experience of every sane man and woman on earth. It's decayed; it ought to be buried. You ask me to give it a trial. Perhaps I will, when I'm in the same mellow condition myself. Everything in its proper season. Don't let us reverse the n

ng. What do you think of wome

without a mome

on the part of man alone. It's a protest on the part of woman. Never forget that. In fact, I don't believe any woman would ever bind herself to one fool of a man if she had her own way. She wouldn't marry at all. She needn't, nowadays. She won't, ve

he

was s

stop," said Denis. "Yo

llectually and physically. He classifies minerals or blasts out a tunnel. Woman creates physiologically; she supplies the essential, the raw material; her noblest product is a child. I get on splendidly with women, because we both realize the stupidity of the average sex-twaddle. We have no illusions about each other

," said Den

What, san

e-he knew how much he had to learn. But he would have preferred his mind to be moulded gently, in artistic fashion. Marten's style was more like random blows from a sl

n rep

nid

"I do know a little something about crystals,

emetic. But you never answered my first q

for a Christian name. Girls' names are so terribly commonplace. They are al

position at this rate. If I had a daughter,

ha

gel

sked Denis slo

a pretty name,

hink of it. But it sounds foreign. I th

But ther

," sai

rten w

r foot, lay flooded in sunshine. With one accord, the two young men rose from

t?" enquired Marten with a

n't k

wful crowd-a regular bust-up. He only gives one of these entertainments a

ater in th

le, he felt in need of some gentlemanly and soothing influence, after such an outpouring of vulgarity. He thought of the bibliographer. He liked Eame

go to Eames,

l Don. I promised him a mineralogical map, by the way. You might tell h

" said Denis. "He k

!" replied Marten with decision. "A

you call

ke that. Things with pr

said n

continued

that Club. Besides, I've taken rather a fancy to that younger sister. The second younge

being a kindly sort of man, he thought that other people might like to share in the seductions which the place afforded. He took foreign friends there from time to time, and none were disappointed. The wine was excellent. Russians, excluded from the Club by Mr. Parker's severity, frequented the spot in considerable numbers. They were nicely treated there. Not many n

ly," they said. "Come

n. As for the girls themselves-their admirers were legion. They could have married anyone they pleased, had it not been

shed through the mind of Denis that Eames was a confirmed

was probab

ry should fail. But this one was so matter-of-fact and unpretentious in his clothing, his opinions. A broken-down matrimonial agent, Don Francesco had called him. Mr. Heard was not his

im sufficiently to intrud

t try to "find himself." He wanted to be alone, to think things out. Or perhaps-no. He did not want

"full moon." The moon

o

stay to luncheon. Eames could wait. So could the bi

place-that austere old convent