“You’re not going to tell me you’ve been occupying your leisure in writing poetry? That’s a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient.”
“I was trying to do some translations. D’you know Spanish?”
“No.”
“Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don’t you?”
“I don’t indeed.”
“He was one of the Spanish mystics. He’s one of the best poets they’ve ever had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English.”
“May I look at your translation?”
“It’s very rough,” said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity which suggested that he was eager for him to read it.
It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which was hard to read: it was just like black letter.
“Doesn’t it take you an awful time to write like that? It’s wonderful.”