I understood only half of what he meant, and answered that I did not know.
Then I told him about my poems, and he listened and smiled, an odd ironical smile that also I could not understand. At last when I departed with the children he asked me what books I was reading.
"None at all," I replied, whereupon he looked surprised.
"May I get you some from the library?"
I thought it was very kind of him, and said that I should be pleased.
A few days later the porter handed me a parcel containing books, and a slip of paper.
"I have chosen the books in a great hurry," he had written, "but trust that you will like them."
As soon as I could find time I opened one of the books. It was a volume of novels by Jacobsen, and one of them was called "Morgan."
I read it all through.... A man—a dreamer, who loves madly a girl to-day and has forgotten her by to-morrow; and round that man there moved pictures full of glowing colour and sparkling light. I liked it, but did not really understand it.
"Have you read some of the books?" my new friend asked me as soon as we met.