caricatured　folk）　who　had　the　last　say　in　the　formation　of　my
  character。　　One　is　nothing　if　not　modest；　but　in　this　disaster　I
  think　I　have　done　some　honour　to　their　simple　teaching。　　〃Won't
  you　sit　down？〃　　Very　fair；　very　fair　indeed。　　She　sat　down。　　Her
  amused　glance　strayed　all　over　the　room。　　There　were　pages　of　MS。
  on　the　table　and　under　the　table；　a　batch　of　typed　copy　on　a
  chair；　single　leaves　had　fluttered　away　into　distant　corners；
  there　were　there　living　pages；　pages　scored　and　wounded；　dead
  pages　that　would　be　burnt　at　the　end　of　the　daythe　litter　of　a
  cruel　battlefield；　of　a　long；　long　and　desperate　fray。　　Long！　　I
  suppose　I　went　to　bed　sometimes；　and　got　up　the　same　number　of
  times。　　Yes；　I　suppose　I　slept；　and　ate　the　food　put　before　me；
  and　talked　connectedly　to　my　household　on　suitable　occasions。
  But　I　had　never　been　aware　of　the　even　flow　of　daily　life；　made
  easy　and　noiseless　for　me　by　a　silent；　watchful；　tireless
  affection。　　Indeed；　it　seemed　to　me　that　I　had　been　sitting　at
  that　table　surrounded　by　the　litter　of　a　desperate　fray　for　days
  and　nights　on　end。　　It　seemed　so；　because　of　the　intense
  weariness　of　which　that　interruption　had　made　me　awarethe　awful
  disenchantment　of　a　mind　realising　suddenly　the　futility　of　an
  enormous　task；　joined　to　a　bodily　fatigue　such　as　no　ordinary
  amount　of　fairly　heavy　physical　labour　could　ever　account　for。　　I
  have　carried　bags　of　wheat　on　my　back；　bent　almost　double　under　a
  ship's　deck…beams；　from　six　in　the　morning　till　six　in　the
  evening　（with　an　hour　and　a　half　off　for　meals）；　so　I　ought　to
  know。
  And　I　love　letters。　　I　am　jealous　of　their　honour　and　concerned
  for　the　dignity　and　comeliness　of　their　service。　　I　was；　most
  likely；　the　only　writer　that　neat　lady　had　ever　caught　in　the
  exercise　of　his　craft；　and　it　distressed　me　not　to　be　able　to
  remember　when　it　was　that　I　dressed　myself　last；　and　how。　　No
  doubt　that　would　be　all　right　in　essentials。　　The　fortune　of　the
  house　included　a　pair　of　grey…blue　watchful　eyes　that　would　see
  to　that。　　But　I　felt　somehow　as　grimy　as　a　Costaguana　lepero
  after　a　day's　fighting　in　the　streets；　rumpled　all　over　and
  dishevelled　down　to　my　very　heels。　　And　I　am　afraid　I　blinked
  stupidly。　　All　this　was　bad　for　the　honour　of　letters　and　the
  dignity　of　their　service。　　Seen　indistinctly　through　the　dust　of
  my　collapsed　universe；　the　good　lady　glanced　about　the　room　with
  a　slightly　amused　serenity。　　And　she　was　smiling。　　What　on　earth
  was　she　smiling　at？　　She　remarked　casually：
  〃I　am　afraid　I　interrupted　you。〃
  〃Not　at　all。〃
  She　accepted　the　denial　in　perfect　good　faith。　　And　it　was
  strictly　true。　Interruptedindeed！　　She　had　robbed　me　of　at
  least　twenty　lives；　each　infinitely　more　poignant　and　real　than
  her　own；　because　informed　with　passion；　possessed　of　convictions；
  involved　in　great　affairs　created　out　of　my　own　substance　for　an
  anxiously　meditated　end。
  She　remained　silent　for　a　while；　then　said　with　a　last　glance　all
  round　at　the　litter　of　the　fray：
  〃And　you　sit　like　this　here　writing　youryour。　。　。〃
  〃Iwhat？　　Oh；　yes；　I　sit　here　all　day。〃
  〃It　must　be　perfectly　delightful。〃
  I　suppose　that；　being　no　longer　very　young；　I　might　have　been　on
  the　verge　of　having　a　stroke；　but　she　had　left　her　dog　in　the
  porch；　and　my　boy's　dog；　patrolling　the　field　in　front；　had
  espied　him　from　afar。　　He　came　on　straight　and　swift　like　a
  cannon…ball；　and　the　noise　of　the　fight；　which　burst　suddenly
  upon　our　ears；　was　more　than　enough　to　scare　away　a　fit　of
  apoplexy。　　We　went　out　hastily　and　separated　the　gallant　animals。
  Afterwards　I　told　the　lady　where　she　would　find　my　wifejust
  round　the　corner；　under　the　trees。　　She　nodded　and　went　off　with
  her　dog；　leaving　me　appalled　before　the　death　and　devastation　she
  had　lightly　madeand　with　the　awfully　instructive　sound　of　the
  word　〃delightful〃　lingering　in　my　ears。
  Nevertheless；　later　on；　I　duly　escorted　her　to　the　field　gate。　　I
  wanted　to　be　civil；　of　course　（what　are　twenty　lives　in　a　mere
  novel　that　one　should　be　rude　to　a　lady　on　their　account？）；　but
  mainly；　to　adopt　the　good　sound　Ollendorffian　style；　because　I
  did　not　want　the　dog　of　the　general's　daughter　to　fight　again
  （encore）　with　the　faithful　dog　of　my　infant　son　（mon　petit
  garcon）。Was　I　afraid　that　the　dog　of　the　general's　daughter
  would　be　able　to　overcome　（vaincre）　the　dog　of　my　child？No；　I
  was　not　afraid。　。　。But　away　with　the　Ollendorff　method。　　However
  appropriate　and　seemingly　unavoidable　when　I　touch　upon　anything
  appertaining　to　the　lady；　it　is　most　unsuitable　to　the　origin；
  character　and　history　of　the　dog；　for　the　dog　was　the　gift　to　the
  child　from　a　man　for　whom　words　had　anything　but　an　Ollendorffian
  value；　a　man　almost　childlike　in　the　impulsive　movements　of　his
  untutored　genius；　the　most　single…minded　of　verbal
  impressionists；　using　his　great　gifts　of　straight　feeling　and
  right　expression　with　a　fine　sincerity　and　a　strong　if；　perhaps；
  not　fully　conscious　conviction。　　His　art　did　not　obtain；　I　fear；
  all　the　credit　its　unsophisticated　inspiration　deserved。　　I　am
  alluding　to　the　late　Stephen　Crane；　the　author　of　〃The　Red　Badge
  of　Courage；〃　a　work　of　imagination　which　found　its　short　moment
  of　celebrity　in　the　last　decade　of　the　departed　century。　　Other
  books　followed。　　Not　many。　　He　had　not　the　time。　　It　was　an
  individual　and　complete　talent；　which　obtained　but　a　grudging；
  somewhat　supercilious　recognition　from　the　world　at　large。　　For
  himself　one　hesitates　to　regret　his　early　death。　　Like　one　of　the
  men　in　his　〃Open　Boat；〃　one　felt　that　he　was　of　those　whom　fate
  seldom　allows　to　make　a　safe　landing　after　much　toil　and
  bitterness　at　the　oar。　　I　confess　to　an　abiding　affection　for
  that　energetic；　slight；　fragile；　intensely　living　and　transient
  figure。　　He　liked　me　even　before　we　met　on　the　strength　of　a　page
  or　two　of　my　writing；　and　after　we　had　met　I　am　glad　to　think　he
  liked　me　still。　　He　used　to　point　out　to　me　with　great
  earnestness；　and　even　with　some　severity；　that　〃a　boy　ought　to
  have　a　dog。〃　　I　suspect　that　he　was　shocked　at　my　neglect　of
  parental　duties。　　Ultimately　it　was　he　who　provided　the　dog。
  Shortly　afterwards；　one　day；　after　playing　with　the　child　on　the
  rug　for　an　hour　or　so　with　the　most　intense　absorption；　he　raised
  his　head　and　declared　firmly：　　〃I　shall　teach　your　boy　to　ride。〃
  That　was　not　to　be。　　He　was　not　given　the　time。
  But　here　is　the　dogan　old　dog　now。　　Broad　and　low　on　his　bandy
  paws；　with　a　black　head　on　a　white　body　and　a　ridiculous　black
  spot　at　the　other　end　of　him；　he　provokes；　when　he　walks　abroad；
  smiles　not　altogether　unkind。　　Grotesque　and　engaging　in　the
  whole　of　his　appearance；　his　usual　attitudes　are　meek；　but　his
  temperament　discloses　itself　unexpectedly　pugnacious　in　the
  presence　of　his　kind。　　As　he　lies　in　the　firelight；　his　head　well
  up；　and　a　fixed；　far…away　gaze　directed　at　the　shadows　of　the
  room；　he　achieves　a　striking　nobility　of　pose　in　the　calm
  consciousness　of　an　unstained　life。　　He　has　brought　up　one　baby；
  and　now；　after　seeing　his　first　charge　off　to　school；　he　is
  bringing　up　another　with　the　same　conscientious　devotion；　but
  with　a　more　deliberate　gravity　of　manner；　the　sign　of　greater
  wisdom　and　riper　experience；　but　also　of　rheumatism；　I　fear。
  From　the　morning　bath　to　the　evening　ceremonies　of　the　cot　you
  attend；　old　friend；　the　little　two…legged　creature　of　your
  adoption；　being　yourself　treated　in　the　exercise　of　your　duties
  with　every　possible　regard；　with　infinite　consideration；　by　every
  person　in　the　houseeven　as　I　myself　am　treated；　only　you
  deserve　it　more。　　The　general's　daughter　would　tell　you　that　it
  must　be　〃perfectly　delightful。〃
  Aha！　old　dog。　　She　never　heard　you　yelp　with　acute　pain　（it's
  that　poor　left　ear）　the　while；　with　incredible　self…command；　you
  preserve　a　rigid　immobility　for　fear　of　overturning　the　little
  two…legged　creature。　　She　has　never　seen　your　resigned　smile　when
  the　little　two…legged　creature；　interrogated　sternly；　〃What　are
  you　doing　to　the　good　dog？〃　answers　with　a　wide；　innocent　stare：
  〃Nothing。　　Only　loving　him；　mamma　dear！〃
  The　general's　daughter　does　not　know　the　secret　terms　of　self…
  imposed　tasks；　good　dog；　the　pain　that　may　lurk　in　the　very
  rewards　of　rigid　self…command。　　But　we　have　lived　together　many
  years。　　We　have