He sprang aside in a wild effort to break
through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branches
held him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those
narrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.
THE RECESSIONAL
Clovis sat in the hottest zone but two of a Turkish bath,
alternately inert in statuesque contemplation and rapidly
manoeuvring a fountain-pen over the pages of a note-book.
"Don't interrupt me with your childish prattle," he observed to
Bertie van Tahn, who had slung himself languidly into a
neighbouring chair and looked conversationally inclined; "I'm
writing deathless verse."
Bertie looked interested.
"I say, what a boon you would be to portrait painters if you
really got to be notorious as a poetry writer. If they couldn't
get your likeness hung in the Academy as 'Clovis Sangrail, Esq.,
at work on his latest poem,' they could slip you in as a Study of
the Nude or Orpheus descending into Jermyn Street. They always
complain that modern dress handicaps them, whereas a towel and a
fountain-pen--"
"It was Mrs. Packletide's suggestion that I should write this
thing," said Clovis, ignoring the bypaths to fame that Bertie van
Tahn was pointing out to him.
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