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 "Who's talking about glory, you poor little footlight moth! . . . Besides it's not as vague as you think. The greatest messages the world has ever received have been spread by word of mouth."

Paul's vision suddenly cleared. "One thing is sure, and that is that I'll never be good for anything but spreading the ideas that have come to possess me. Like the Ancient Mariner I'm doomed to go wandering forth, stopping 'one of three' . . . Do you remember the days, Gritty, when we had to spout that poem?"

"Do I! I was a rotten reciter—and here I am now, reciting every night of my life! Oh, Paul, darling, doesn't it make you feel chokey to think of those days and that odious little with its smell of wet slate-pencils that squeaked, squeaked, squeaked, and geraniums at the window and coloured water and Miss Hornby's bottle of cod liver oil?"

"And your pigtails!"

"And gingham pinnies that I always came home torn in. And the spit-balls we used to shoot at each other with a elastic."

"And Wilfrid Fraser who always put his head under the desk when he blew his nose."

"And the time John Ashmill held it under when Miss Hornby asked Wilfie a question. . . . And now—whoever would a dreamt all that's happened! Oh. Paul, it is a dream—no kidding. But I do wisht I could have a aim like you, honest I do!"

"Saves disappointment not to, dear."

Gritty stroked his hand. "You so often look sad, honey—why?"

"I feel sad—diffusely, almost paternally. I'm sad for the world, rather. As far as I'm concerned nothing matters. I'm too old."

Gritty gave a ringing laugh. "Baby boy! Why, you're younger'n me, and I'm only thirty!"