"Yes," I said, "if one could only see this Hempfield of ours as it really is, all the poetry of it, all the passion of it, all the dullness and mediocrity, all the tragedy of failure, all that is in the hearts and souls of these common people—what a thing it would be! How it would stir the world!"
I must have said it with my whole soul, as I felt it. I suppose I should not have added fuel to the fire of that youth, I suppose I should have been calm and old and practical.
For a moment Nort sat perfectly silent. Then I felt the trembling, eager pressure of his hand on my arm. He leaned over toward me.
"David," he said, "you understand things."
There was that in his voice that I had never heard before. Usually he had a half-humorous, yes, flippant, way with him, but there was something here that touched bottom.
I don't know quite why it is, but after I have been serious about so long, I have an irresistible desire to laugh. I find I can't remain in a rarified atmosphere too long.
"Nort," I said suddenly, "you haven't been seeing any terrible truths about Hempfield, have you?"
The change in his face was startling. He looked like a boy caught in the jam closet—the colour suddenly flooding his cheeks.
"Where is it?" I asked. "Trot it out."
"How did you know?" asked that extraordinary young man.