Hermione
I've had intimations like that myself—really!
I'm dreadfully psychic, you know.
Sometimes I quite startle people with my psychic power.
Fothergil Finch was here the other evening—you know Fothergil Finch, the poet, don't you?—and I astounded him utterly by reading his inmost thoughts.
He had just finished reading one of his poems—a vers libre poem, you know; all about Strength and Virility, and that sort of thing. Fothergil is just simply fascinated by Strength and Virility, though you never would think it to look at him—he is so—so—well, if you get what I mean you'd think to look at him that he'd be writing about violets instead of cave men.
"Fothy," I said, when he had finished reading the poem, "I know what you are thinking—what you are feeling!"
"What?" he said.
"You're thinking," I said, "how wonderful a thing is the Cosmic Urge!"
Thoughts come to me just like that—leap to me—right out of nowhere, so to speak.
Fothy was staggered; he actually turned pale; for a minute or two he could scarcely speak. There had been scarcely a word about the Cosmic Urge in the poem, you know; he'd hardly mentioned it.
[142]
