ecognised through the grey
screen of the rain. I do not generally agree with those who find rain
depressing. A shower-bath is not depressing; it is rather startling. And
if it is exciting when a man throws a pail of water over you, why should
it not also be exciting when the gods throw many pails? But on this
soaking afternoon, whether it was the dull sky-line of the Netherlands
or the fact that we were returning home without any adventure, I really
did think things a trifle dreary. As soon as we could creep under the
shelter of a street we turned into a little cafe, kept by one woman. She
was incredibly old, and she spoke no French. There we drank black coffee
and what was called "cognac fine." "Cognac fine" were the only two
French words used in the establishment, and they were not true. At
least, the fineness (perhaps by its very ethereal delicacy) escaped me.
After a little my friend, who was more restless than I, got up and went
out, to see if the rain had stopped and if we could at once stroll back
to our hotel by the station. I sat finishing my coffee in a colourless
mood, and listening to the unremitting rain.

.....

Suddenly the door burst open, and my friend appeared, transfigured and
frantic.

"Get up!" he cried, waving his hands wildly. "Get up! We're in the wrong
town! We're not in Mechlin at all. Mechlin is ten miles, twenty miles
off--God knows what! We're somewhere near Antwerp."

"What!" I cried, leaping from my seat, and sending the furniture flying.
"Then all is well, after all! Poetry only hid her face for an instant
behind a cloud. Positively for a moment I was feeling depressed because
we were in the right town. But if we are in the wrong town--why, we
have our adventure after all! If we are in the wrong town, we are in the
right place."

I rushed out into the rain, and my friend followed me somewhat more
grimly. We discovered we were in a town called Lierre, which seemed to
consist chiefly of bankrupt pastry cooks, who sold lemonade.

"This is the peak of our whole poetic progress!" I cried
enthusiastically. "We must do something, something sacramental and
commemorative! We cannot sacrifice an ox, and it would be a bore to
build a temple. Let us write a poem."

With but slight encouragement, I took out an old envelope and one of
those pencils that turn bright violet in water. There was plenty of
water about, and the violet ran down the paper, symbolising the rich
purple of that romantic