The blade was a cruel one, and keen as pitilessness.
She cut the pages of the book with it—and as the paper hissed its surrender to the sharp blade’s thrust she smiled. But in the smile was little mirth.
Across the river, in the students’ quarter, brooding before a wood fire in the rooms of his hotel, sat Mr. Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre.
He had written a play, choke-full of the most obvious symbolism. It had failed. It was not even considered original—indeed, it had been condemned as being very poor Ibsen indeed.
Nor had he won money out of the venture.
He was sadly puzzled.
Not to be original! it were not to be Quogg Myre.
He searched the history of genius to find a precedent on which to act—to be original.
He arose on to his splay feet, and with his awkward slovenly gait paced the room, shivered at the discomfort of his thoughts, walked to the fireplace and stood brooding at his image in the mirror above it; his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. His untidy colourless hair fell over his paste-coloured forehead—it was more untidy than usual, more colourless. A hank of it stood out on the back of his poll like the crest of a cockatoo. He was sickly pale. His weak puffy red lip was limp and uneasy. His long quarrelsome chin alone held firm for bouts of decision. It was his chin that fought the slacknesses of his body.