I'm dreadfully psychic, you know.
Sometimes I quite startle people with my psychic power.
Fothergil Finch was here the other evening — you know fothergil Finch, the poet, don't you? — and I astounded him utterly by reading his inmost thoughts.
He had just finished reading one of his poems — a vers libre poem, you know; all about Strength and Virility, and that sort of thing. Fothergil is just simply fascinated by Strength and Virility, though you never would think it to look at him — he is so — so — well, if you get what I mean you'd think to look at him that he'd be writing about violets instead of cave men.
"Fothy," I said, when he had finished reading the poem, "I know what you are thinking — what you are feeling!"
"What?" he said.
"You're thinking," I said, 'how WONDERFUL a thing is the Cosmic Urge!"
Thoughts come to me just like that — leap to me — right out of nowhere, so to speak.
Fothy was staggered; he actually turned pale; for a minute or two he could scarcely speak. There had been scarcely a WORD about Cosmic Urge in the poem, you know; he'd hardly mentioned it.
"It is wonderful," he said, when we got over the shock; "wonderful to be understood!" And you know, really — poor dear! — so many people don't understand Fothy at all. Nor what he writes, either.