situated and so unfortunate, or else of such exceptional imaginative force or training (which is itself, perhaps, from the practical point of view, a misfortune), as to be capable of a discontent with life as it is, so passionate as to outweigh instinctive timidities and discretions. Rest assured that to make any large section of the comfortable upper middle class Socialists, you must either misrepresent, and more particularly under-represent Socialism, or you must quicken their imaginations far beyond the present state of affairs.
“Can’t you keep the beast from acting like he belonged to me, when I’m judging him?” grumpily complained McGilead, once to the Master. “A fine impression it makes, don’t it, on strangers, when they see him come wagging and grinning up to me and wanting to shake hands, or to roll over for me to play with him? One fool asked me, was it my own dog I gave the prize to. He said no outsider’s dog would be making such a fuss over a judge. Try to keep him in better order in the ring, or I’ll prove he isn’t mine, by ‘giving him the gate,’ one of these days. See if I don’t.”
“Sleep, indeed,” said the gentleman; “not if I can help it. Here, Davy”—and he called the red-haired man—“take Jemmy Nowlan and put him out; he can tell no story. I will have no one here who can’t tell me a story. Put him out, he is not worth his supper.”
With the Scots lords at his feet.'
What must she do? Just before the accident she had noted the Piccola Marina away to the north-west. That would mean a hard swim against the waves, but it would be the best thing to do. It could not be half a mile away. And Arthur? Arthur would look after himself. He would do that all right. She would only encumber him by swimming around. Perhaps he would get the man on to the boat. Perhaps people had seen them from the Piccola Marina. If so boats would come out to them.
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
The large, smooth face, with its loose mouth and dizzied eyes, is the face of a magician out of a story book. It is not a real face. It has only one of the attributes of power—egotism. Egotism has furrowed every line on that countenance; it dilates the eyes. Egotism runs through the sensitive fingers. I have stood by his side and wilfully shut my ears on the music and fastened my eyes on his face; but I learned nothing. I do not know if his mind dwells aloof from all emotion, his intellect functioning automatically—as would seem to be the case; or if, experienced and cynical, he has the power of pouring the very essence of his spirit into sound, laughing at himself 186and us as he does so—but laughing more at us than at himself, for we are deceived whilst he is not.
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