‘I hope,’ said Lamia, ‘that we who are here would answer to that description; yet you never read what you are writing either to Veronica or to me. I have often wondered what is the reason.’
‘The reason is very simple,’ he replied. ‘Veronica is rather difficult, you are somewhat easy, to please; and, while she might make me too distrustful, you, dear Lamia, would, I fear, render me too enamoured of my work. It is best, I think, oneself to be its critic, and as searching and severe a one as possible; and then to leave it with all its imperfections on its head, which are sure to be very numerous, but are at least one’s own.‘
‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘how poetry is written.’
‘If I could tell you that,’ he answered, ‘you might conceivably take advantage of the information to become a formidable rival. But, as far as I can help you, I should say poetry is a natural and indeed inevitable form of expression, as I suppose music also is, in a certain mood or state.’
‘And how is the state brought about?’ she asked.
A smile came over his face as he replied: ‘I wish I knew. Perhaps by consorting with Lamias, when they are not too inquisitive.’
Veronica remained seated beside us, while he resumed his walk under the roses. When he had passed out of hearing, Veronica turned to Lamia a little austerely, and said:
‘There are some persons—usually you are not one of them—who are perpetually trying to invade the sanctuary of one’s soul, with the result that one double-locks the doors. Only those who come to worship, not to scrutinise, are admitted. Have we not already been told,—
‘What is it rules thy singing season?
Instinct, that diviner Reason,