"If you ever wish to see me, enter the forest of your own heart."
V
THE ROAD
ebster sprang to his feet in the depths of the strange summer-dark forest: that is to say, he awoke with a violent start and found himself sitting on his bed with his feet hanging over one side.
It was late to be getting up. The sun already soared above the roof of the cottage opposite his window and the light slanted in full blaze against his shutters. Shafts penetrated some weather-loosened slats and fell on his head and shoulders and on the wall behind him. Breakfast must be nearly ready. Fresh cooking odours—coffee odour, meat odour, bread odour—filled the little bathroom-bedroom. Feet were hurrying, scurrying, in the kitchen. Quieter footsteps approached his door along the narrow hall outside and there came a tap:
"Breakfast, Webster!"