XXIV.
1
I like the boy. It’s years back I began to draw him to me—or he was pushed my way by the others. And what if there’s no sleep because the bed’s burning; is that a reason to send a chap to Greystone! Greystone! There’s a name if you’ve any tatter of mind left in you. It’s the long back, narrowing that way at the waist perhaps whets the chisel in me. How the flanks flutter and the heart races. Imagination! That’s the worm in the apple. What if it run to paralyses and blind fires, here’s sense loose in a world set on foundations. Blame buzzards for the eyes they have.
Buzzards, granted their disgusting habit in regard to meat, have eyes of a power equal to that of the eagles’.
2
Five miscarriages since January is a considerable record Emily dear—but hearken to me: The Pleiades—that small cluster of lights in the sky there—. You’d better go on in the house before you catch cold. Go on now!
Carelessness of heart is a virtue akin to the small lights of the stars. But it is sad to see virtues in those who have not the gift of the imagination to value them.