Oswald shook his head. “Fancy is too moody a jade for my guide. At times she leads in hot haste with no consideration for him who follows. At times she stays moping, forcing a man to idle in one spot at her will.”
At this Peregrine demurred. “I see her will and mine in accord,” quoth he.
Oswald laughed, denying the argument firmly. “You may think so, but ’tis not the case. An’ you take her for guide, you have no will in the matter, or rather, make it subservient to hers. An’ a man use his own will, he makes a slave of fancy.” He paused a moment, then continued. “How know you your goal mere moonshine? Did you gain it?”
“Near enough to know it non-existent, naught but a fancy of the brain.”
Oswald moved impatiently. “There you are back at your fancy. I told you she was no good guide.”
“In this case she was not of my own seeking.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Oswald. “You may think me over-blunt, but, if a man speak in riddles, methinks he has little to tell. Fact will bear plain words and close handling.”
Peregrine looked at him. He was not displeased with his bluntness. He saw in him one who came to a grip with matters. Mayhap, he lost hold on a part of what he gripped at, since a man’s grasp is not over-large; nevertheless he saw him making sure of what he grasped.
“You shall have the story plainly,” said Peregrine. And forthwith gave it to him.
On the conclusion Oswald made no answer, but remained half-musing. When at last he spoke it was as though he conferred with himself.