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Barbecue-Smith replied. "I canalise it. I bring it down through pipes to work the turbines of my conscious mind." "Like Niagara," Denis suggested. Some of Mr. Barbecue-Smith's remarks sounded strangely like quotations quotations from his own works, no doubt. "Precisely. Like Niagara. And this is how I do it."

From the arm-chair by the fireplace he heard Priscilla's deep voice. "Tell me, Mr Barbecue-Smith you know all about science, I know " A deprecating noise came from Mr. Barbecue-Smith's chair. "This Einstein theory. It seems to upset the whole starry universe. It makes me so worried about my horoscopes. You see..." Mary renewed her attack.

Barbecue-Smith repeated. "You mean the native wood-note business?" Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Oh, then I entirely agree with you," said Denis. "But what if one hasn't got Inspiration?" "That was precisely the question I was waiting for," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "You ask me what one should do if one hasn't got Inspiration. I answer: you have Inspiration; everyone has Inspiration.

"I see Surrey has won," she said, with her mouth full, "by four wickets. The sun is in Leo: that would account for it!" "Splendid game, cricket," remarked Mr. Barbecue-Smith heartily to no one in particular; "so thoroughly English." Jenny, who was sitting next to him, woke up suddenly with a start. "What?" she said. "What?" "So English," repeated Mr. Barbecue-Smith.

Some of his books of comfort and spiritual teaching were in their hundred and twentieth thousand. Priscilla received him with every mark of esteem. He had never been to Crome before; she showed him round the house. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was full of admiration. "So quaint, so old-world," he kept repeating. He had a rich, rather unctuous voice. Priscilla praised his latest book.

"You understand me now when I advise you to cultivate your Inspiration. Let your Subconscious work for you; turn on the Niagara of the Infinite." There was the sound of feet on the stairs. Mr. Barbecue-Smith got up, laid his hand for an instant on Denis's shoulder, and said: "No more now. Another time. And remember, I rely absolutely on your discretion in this matter.

Barbecue-Smith, closing his eyes. "Summer Land. A beautiful name. Beautiful beautiful." Mary had taken the seat next to Denis's. After a night of careful consideration she had decided on Denis. He might have less talent than Gombauld, he might be a little lacking in seriousness, but somehow he was safer. "Are you writing much poetry here in the country?" she asked, with a bright gravity.

"Splendid, I thought it was," she said in her large, jolly way. "I'm happy to think you found it a comfort," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "Oh, tremendously! And the bit about the Lotus Pool I thought that so beautiful." "I knew you would like that. It came to me, you know, from without." He waved his hand to indicate the astral world. They went out into the garden for tea. Mr.

"Well, yes a little, you know." "How many words do you find you can write in an hour?" "I don't think I've ever counted." "Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important." Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I fancy I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But sometimes it takes me much longer." Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded.

She was putting them in the same category Barbecue-Smith and himself. They were both writers, they both used pen and ink. To Mr. Barbecue-Smith's question he answered, "Oh, nothing much, nothing," and looked away. "Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets." It was Anne's voice. He scowled at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly. "Excellent, excellent," said Mr.