“I’m mad or dreaming.”
“Perhaps both,” declared Vestasian. “The page is quite complete.”
“Yes, yes,” he broke in eagerly. “It’s all right now. It’s quite clear. Here, get away and let me go on.”
And he pushed us both back irritably.
He went on again for some time, but at last down went the pen. He slammed his hand over the leaf and gave an excited whine. Then he lifted his hand ever so slightly and peered under it, just like a schoolboy who has caught a fly.
“It’s gone again,” he shouted, jumping up. “And I don’t know what it is. It keeps going, and when it’s gone it isn’t there. And no one will take it as it is, nor read it, nor—nor anything.”
“Oh, yes, they will, you’re a good writer,” said Vestasian.
At this he burst out laughing again.
“It’s that flame—that feeble, flickering light,” he cried harshly. “I believe it blots the sense out. Take it away, take it away.”
“But you would be left in darkness.”