Hermione
Turn, choke, twist and struggle, sleeper, and snore me the song of life in the making,
Sneeze me a universe full of star-dust,
Snore me back to the days when I was a Cave Man, and with my bare hands slew the walrus, for I am Virile!
Snore the death-rattle of the walrus, O struggling sleeper, snore!
Snore me——
But I was compelled to leave. There is a great deal of it, Fothergil says. If you know Fothergil you are aware that when he declaims his Virile verses he becomes excited; he swells physically; sometimes he looks quite five feet tall in his moments of expansion; all this is very bad for him. More than once the declamation of his poem, "Myself and the Cosmic Urge," has sent him shaking to the tea urn.
Before I left I was able to calm him somewhat. But with calm came reflection. And with reflection came his great, gray Dread again.
When I left, Fothergil was looking out of the window and shuddering, as if the Monster Popularity might be hiding behind the neighboring chimneys. One hand clasped the phial caressingly.
But somehow I doubt that Fothergil will ever be compelled to drink the poison.
[44]
