Chapter 10 - Page 2

repeated, and turned to the cabinet where the rolls
were kept. He trod off the old roll and trod on the new, a slave
at the mill, uncomplaining and beautifully well bred. "Rum; Tum;
Rum-ti-ti; Tum-ti-ti..." The melody wallowed oozily along, like
a ship moving forward over a sleek and oily swell. The four-
legged creature, more graceful, more harmonious in its movements
than ever, slid across the floor. Oh, why was he born with a
different face?

"What are you reading?"

He looked up, startled. It was Mary. She had broken from the
uncomfortable embrace of Mr. Scogan, who had now seized on Jenny
for his victim.

"What are you reading?"

"I don't know," said Denis truthfully. He looked at the title
page; the book was called "The Stock Breeder's Vade Mecum."

"I think you are so sensible to sit and read quietly," said Mary,
fixing him with her china eyes. "I don't know why one dances.
It's so boring."

Denis made no reply; she exacerbated him. From the arm-chair by
the fireplace he heard Priscilla's deep voice.

"Tell me, Mr Barbecue-Smith--you know all about science, I
know--" A deprecating noise came from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's
chair. "This Einstein theory. It seems to upset the whole
starry universe. It makes me so worried about my horoscopes.
You see..."

Mary renewed her attack. "Which of the contemporary poets do you
like best?" she asked. Denis was filled with fury. Why couldn't
this pest of a girl leave him alone? He wanted to listen to the
horrible music, to watch them dancing--oh, with what grace, as
though they had been made for one another!--to savour his misery
in peace. And she came and put him through this absurd
catechism! She was like "Mangold's Questions": "What are the
three diseases of wheat?"--"Which of the contemporary poets do
you like best?"

"Blight, Mildew, and Smut," he replied, with the laconism of one
who is absolutely certain of his own mind.

It was several hours before Denis managed to go to sleep that
night. Vague but agonising miseries possessed his mind. It was
not only Anne who made him miserable; he was wretched about
himself, the future, life in general, the universe. "This
adolescence business," he repeated to himself every now and then,
"is horribly boring. But the fact that he knew his disease did
not help him to cure it.

After kicking all the clothes off the bed, he got up and sought
relief in composition. He wanted to imprison his nameless misery
in words. At the end of an hour, nine more or less complete
lines emerged from among the blots and scratchings.

"I do not know what I desire
When summer nights are dark and still,
When the wind's many-voiced quire
Sleeps among