commonplaceness obtrude too bluntly. Don't stab his illusions; let them die of inanition if you must. Do, in short, understand him. He knows you can't really—nobody can, not even himself; he knows it, he knows it—but for the love of heaven, try, oh, try!"
Then he called himself an idiot, threw down his pen, and undressed. His thoughts were still revolving about Phœbe, and as he extinguished the lamp, the words of an old ditty came into his head:
Je n'ai plus de feu.
Ouvre-mot ta porte,
Pour l'amour de Dieu."
That was it: Phœbe must give him a new light on himself, must help him discover his destiny. For he was still obsessed with the idea that he had a message for the world, even a sermon to preach. So far, like Aunt Verona, he had merely collected texts; it was time to sort them and make a synthesis.
From his window he saw rockets careening into the sky over the tree-tops. The village had trooped en masse to the school-yard, to enjoy its annual fête. By this time his arrival was known. Mrs. Barker and Miss Todd would have seen to that. Perhaps Phœbe knew. She would be certain to take an interest—if only by reason of the dearth of interests in Hale's Turning. On that thought his mind fastened and reposed.
For a month Paul was occupied in carrying out repairs on his house. Like a self-respecting ex-second-mate he mixed the paint himself, and even wielded a brush when he could spare the time. He had conferred in Halifax with Mr. Kingsley, the lawyer, who, after administering a well-merited scolding, had handed over to him deeds
