On one such day, some weeks after his mother and Helena had gone back to England, he felt himself fit to burst with all that he had stored within him, ready for expression. As they drank their coffee he had employed himself in sharpening a couple of pencils (for the work of transcription into ink came later in the day), so as not to interrupt, by any physical intrusion, the flow of all he knew was ready to be crystallized into words. Sometimes the least distraction broke some kind of thread when he was in communication with the sea… It may be added that no one was ever less pompous about his aspirations.
To-day Harry observed the sharpening of the pencils, and commented.
"So a masterpiece is signalled, Archie," he said.
Archie blew the lead-dust from his finger.
"Quite right, old boy," he said. "Lord! I'm full of great thoughts. Do go to bed, and then I'll begin."
Jessie joined in.
"Archie, do let me hold your pencils for you," she said, "like Dora in David Copperfield. I shall feel as if I was doing something."
Archie laughed.
"You would be," he remarked. "You would be making an uncommon nuisance of yourself."
"You are polite."