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Updated: June 15, 2025
Barbecue-Smith with a tone of finality, speaking through strains of the "Wild, Wild Women" "optimism is the opening out of the soul towards the light; it is an expansion towards and into God, it is a h-piritual self-unification with the Infinite." "How true!" sighed Priscilla, nodding the baleful splendours of her coiffure.
Denis knew of him vaguely. Barbecue-Smith was a name in the Sunday papers. He wrote about the Conduct of Life. He might even be the author of "What a Young Girl Ought to Know". "No, not personally," he said. "I've invited him for next week-end." She turned over the pages of the book. "Here's the passage I was thinking of. I marked it. I always mark the things I like."
Barbecue-Smith's expanded face shone with gaiety. "Try again." "Fifteen hundred." "No." "I give it up," said Denis. He found he couldn't summon up much interest in Mr. Barbecue-Smith's writing. "Well, I'll tell you. Three thousand eight hundred." Denis opened his eyes. "You must get a lot done in a day," he said. Mr. Barbecue-Smith suddenly became extremely confidential.
"Never mind, never mind," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "It's just a little book about the connection of the Subconscious with the Infinite. Get into touch with the Subconscious and you are in touch with the Universe. Inspiration, in fact. You follow me?" "Perfectly, perfectly," said Denis. "But don't you find that the Universe sometimes sends you very irrelevant messages?" "I don't allow it to," Mr.
I do not know what I desire, I do not know." He read it through aloud; then threw the scribbled sheet into the waste-paper basket and got into bed again. In a very few minutes he was asleep. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was gone. The motor had whirled him away to the station; a faint smell of burning oil commemorated his recent departure.
Besides, I was afraid I might have written nonsense." "And had you written nonsense?" Denis asked. "Certainly not," Mr. Barbecue-Smith replied, with a trace of annoyance. "Certainly not. It was admirable. Just a few spelling mistakes and slips, such as there generally are in automatic writing. But the style, the thought all the essentials were admirable.
Barbecue-Smith was duly introduced. "Mr. Stone is a writer too," said Priscilla, as she introduced Denis. "Indeed!" Mr. Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly, and, looking up at Denis with an expression of Olympian condescension, "And what sort of things do you write?" Denis was furious, and, to make matters worse, he felt himself blushing hotly. Had Priscilla no sense of proportion?
Jenny looked at him, surprised. "English? Of course I am." He was beginning to explain, when Mrs. Wimbush vailed her Sunday paper, and appeared, a square, mauve-powdered face in the midst of orange splendours. "I see there's a new series of articles on the next world just beginning," she said to Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "This one's called 'Summer Land and Gehenna." "Summer Land," echoed Mr.
Mr. Barbecue-Smith belonged to the old school of journalists. He sported a leonine head with a greyish-black mane of oddly unappetising hair brushed back from a broad but low forehead. And somehow he always seemed slightly, ever so slightly, soiled. In younger days he had gaily called himself a Bohemian. He did so no longer. He was a teacher now, a kind of prophet.
One could apply it, of course to the Higher Education illuminating, but provoking the Lower Classes to discontent and revolution. Yes, I suppose that's what it is. But it's gnomic, it's gnomic." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The gong sounded again, clamorously, it seemed imploringly: dinner was growing cold. It roused Mr. Barbecue-Smith from meditation. He turned to Denis.
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