hall, from castle
to castle, from Elizabethan manor-house to Georgian mansion, over
the whole expanse of the kingdom. To-day in Somerset, to-morrow in
Warwickshire, on Saturday in the West riding, by Tuesday morning in
Argyll--Ivor never rested. The whole summer through, from the
beginning of July till the end of September, he devoted himself to his
engagements; he was a martyr to them. In the autumn he went back to
London for a holiday. Crome had been a little incident, an evanescent
bubble on the stream of his life; it belonged already to the past. By
tea-time he would be at Gobley, and there would be Zenobia's welcoming
smile. And on Thursday morning--but that was a long, long way ahead. He
would think of Thursday morning when Thursday morning arrived. Meanwhile
there was Gobley, meanwhile Zenobia.

In the visitor's book at Crome Ivor had left, according to his
invariable custom in these cases, a poem. He had improvised it
magisterially in the ten minutes preceding his departure. Denis and Mr.
Scogan strolled back together from the gates of the courtyard, whence
they had bidden their last farewells; on the writing-table in the hall
they found the visitor's book, open, and Ivor's composition scarcely
dry. Mr. Scogan read it aloud:

"The magic of those immemorial kings, Who webbed enchantment on the
bowls of night. Sleeps in the soul of all created things; In the blue
sea, th' Acroceraunian height, In the eyed butterfly's auricular wings
And orgied visions of the anchorite; In all that singing flies and
flying sings, In rain, in pain, in delicate delight. But much more
magic, much more cogent spells Weave here their wizardries about my
soul. Crome calls me like the voice of vesperal bells, Haunts like a
ghostly-peopled necropole. Fate tears me hence. Hard fate! since far
from Crome My soul must weep, remembering its Home."

"Very nice and tasteful and tactful," said Mr. Scogan, when he had
finished. "I am only troubled by the butterfly's auricular wings. You
have a first-hand knowledge of the workings of a poet's mind, Denis;
perhaps you can explain."

"What could be simpler," said Denis. "It's a beautiful word, and Ivor
wanted to say that the wings were golden."

"You make it luminously clear."

"One suffers so much," Denis went on, "from the fact that beautiful
words don't always mean what they ought to mean. Recently, for example,
I had a whole poem ruined, just because the word 'carminative' didn't
mean wh