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
man
uvring 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 death-less 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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