ey talked of books, and
as they talked of books, Marsh's mind became assuaged. He had lately
published a little volume of poems and he spoke of it to Henry in a shy
fashion, though his eyes brightened and gleamed as he repeated something
that Ernest Harper had said of them ... but then Ernest Harper always
spoke kindly of the work of young, sincere men.

"I'll give you a copy if you like," Marsh said to Henry.

"Oh, thank you!" Henry exclaimed. "I should love to have it. I suppose,"
he went on, "it's very exciting to have a book published."

"I cried when I first saw my book," Marsh answered very simply. "I
suppose women do that when they first see their babies!..."

But Henry did not know what women do when they first see their babies.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

1

All through the summer, Henry and John Marsh worked together, making
Irishry, as Marsh called it. They studied the conventional subjects in
preparation for T. C. D. but their chief studies were of the Irish
tongue and Irish history. Marsh was a Gaelic scholar, and he had made
many translations of Gaelic poems and stories, some of which seemed to
Henry to be of extraordinary beauty, but most of which seemed to him to
be so thoughtless that they were merely lengths of words. There appeared
to be no connexion between these poems and tales and the life he himself
led--and Marsh's point was that the connexion was vital. One evening,
Henry, who had been reading "The Trojan Women" of Euripides, turned to
Marsh and said that the Greek tragedy seemed nearer to him than any of
the Gaelic stories and poems. He expressed his meaning badly, but what
it came to was this, that the continuity of life was not broken in the
Euripidean plays: the life of which Henry was part flowed directly from
the life of which Euripides was part; he had not got the sensation that
he was a stranger looking on at alien things when he had read "The
Trojan Women," "I can imagine all that happening now," he said, "but I
can't imagine any of that Gaelic life recurring. I don't feel any life
in it. It's like something ... something odd suddenly butting into
things ... and then suddenly butting out again ... and leaving no
explanation behind it!"

He tried again, with greater success, to explain what he meant. "It's
like reading topical references in old books," he said. "They mean
nothing to us even when there are footnotes to explain them!"

Marsh had listened patiently to him, though