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I wished myself well out of the job when I saw how cut up he was." Bernald thrilled at the words. Pellerin had shared his pang, then the "old woe of the world" at the perpetuity of human dulness! "But what did he say to the charge of plagiarism if you made it?" "Oh, I told him straight out what Howland said. I thought it fairer. And his answer to that was the rummest part of all." "What was it?"
DAWN found them there, and the risen sun laid its beams on the rough floor of the bungalow, before either of the men was conscious of the passage of time. Bernald, vaguely trying to define his own state in retrospect, could only phrase it: "I floated ... floated. ..."
I've never had any news of him," Bernald heard himself repeating. He spoke in a low tone, and with the automatic utterance that alone made it possible to say the words. They were addressed to Miss Fosdick, into whose neighbourhood chance had thrown him at a dinner, a year or so later than their encounter at the Uplift Club.
Did he talk, or did he make Bernald talk? The young man never knew. He recalled only a sense of lightness and liberation, as if the hard walls of individuality had melted, and he were merged in the poet's deeper interfusion, yet without losing the least sharp edge of self. This general impression resolved itself afterward into the sense of Winterman's wide elemental range.
"No. I'm sure he's safe quite safe." "But if you're sure, you must know something." "No. I know nothing," he repeated. She scanned him incredulously. "But what's your theory for you must have a theory? What in the world can have become of him?" Bernald returned her look and hesitated. "Do you happen to remember the last thing he said to you the very last, on the door-step, when he left you?"
I don't wonder the Greeks it was the Greeks? regarded eloquence as a supernatural power. As Alice says, when one looked at Howland Wade one understood what they meant by the Afflatus." Bernald rose and held out his hand. "Oh, I see it was Howland who made you feel as if Pellerin were in the room? And he made Miss Fosdick feel so too?" "Why, of course. But why are you rushing off?"
During the days that followed, the young doctor gave Bernald farther details about John Winterman: details not of fact for in that respect his visitor's reticence was baffling but of impression.
When we'd patched him up I found he had nowhere to go, and not a dollar in his pocket, and I sent him down to our place at Portchester to re-build." The opening roused his hearer's attention. Bob Wade had an odd unformulated sense of values that Bernald had learned to trust. "What sort of chap? Young or old?" "Oh, every age full of years, and yet with a lot left.
THAT this hope was to be frustrated Bernald learned from Howland Wade's own lips, the day before the two young men were to meet at Portchester. "I can't really, my dear fellow," the Interpreter lisped, passing a polished hand over the faded smoothness of his face.
But the library too was empty, and drifting back uncertainly to the inner drawing-room Bernald found Mrs. Beecher Bain domestically putting out the wax candles on the mantel-piece. "Dear Mr. Bernald! Do sit down and have a little chat. What a wonderful privilege it has been! I don't know when I've had such an intense impression."
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