place where the water seemed a pale and wavering fire was like the sound
of the upwelling of the hidden spring of life. This was the spot where I
could sit and there quietly match the darker shades of trouble in the
afternoon papers, the time being April in England, and the sky ineffable.
There was not a trace of mourning in the sky; not a black-edged cloud.
But human life, being an urgent and serious affair, and not a bright blue
emptiness like Heaven; human life being a state of trial in which, as
favoured beings, we are "heated hot with burning fears and dipped in
baths of hissing tears" for our own good, could not be expected to look
as pleasant, during so severe a necessary process, as almond trees in
blossom. So I sat down and prepared to measure, from the news in the
papers, the depth of the present border on our daily memorial card.

The black border was rather a deep one, when measured. The fears were
fairly hot. There were no noticeable signs of any tears in the papers, so
far, but one could guess there would be a deep extinguishing bath of them
ready to hiss presently, if all went well, and our affairs had
uninterrupted development under the usual clever guides. And we had the
guides. I could see that. The papers were loud with the inspirations of
friends of ours who had not missed a single lesson of the War for those
who were not in it; who were still resolute in that last and
indispensable ditch which no foe is ever likely to reach. But by now the
almond's cloud had vanished. I no longer heard the bubbling of the well
of life.

I finished reading the papers. Now I knew our current fate, and felt as
if I heard again the gas gong going continuously. I had the feeling in
April, unknown to any snail on the thorn, that the park was deafening
with the clangour of pallid, tense, and contending lunatics. The
Serpentine had receded from this tumult. Its tranquil shimmering was now
fatuous and unbelievable. It was but half seen; its glittering was a
distant grimacing and mockery at my troubled human intelligence. It was
nothing to do with me, and showed it in that impertinent way. Two ducks,
two absurd ducks, suddenly appeared before me on the polished water. They
were bowing politely to each other--only I was looking at them--and were
making soothing noises in imbecile ignorance of the fate overhanging us
all. There was a boy not far away. He stood as still as a thought
entranced. He was watching a boat with a pape