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 before his eyes, Mark clung to the few bright opportunities that remained. Paul thought of his friend as a boy doomed to look at life through a window, a wild boy infinitely crude, yet infinitely gentle, his eyes reflecting passionate, wistful, vain enthusiasms.

Looking back on that friendship Paul was to recognize in Mark Laval the first person who set for him an example of the vigorous individuality of thought and expression that is unaware of what other people may be thinking and saying; his own furtive defiance seemed ignoble by contrast. With a Philistinism hard to conquer, he contemplated Mark's ragged clothes and thought of his squalid home, then, in an access of contrition, invited Mark to stay to tea. Aunt Verona made no objection, and Mark, after dutifully scraping his boots, found himself confronted by a mysterious array of china while his host mumbled a mysterious incantation ending in "Amen." He was abashed by his own mishandling of the spoons, yet so eager not to offend Paul and Aunt Verona that he seemed to be apologizing to them for the daintiness of Aunt Verona's taste, and she talked rather brightly to put him at his ease. When he had gone, Paul, for the first time in years, ventured to hug Aunt Verona without invitation.

Next morning, as he was leaving the house, he found on the doorstep a smudged, paper-bound copy of Ruy Blas. In the margins were sketches and annotations. On one page he read: "This ought to be sung." And Paul's mind danced for glee at the discovery that there were lyrics in the world which might be set to music. He had thought of songs as having always existed in an inextricable alliance with their music, like hymns. Trust old Mark to open his eyes!

On the title-page was this inscription: "For you to read and keep Paul. I'll never forget yestiddy." For a second Paul shrank. The Puritanism of countless for-