r's in
Paris. He was a wise old bird, the wisest I ever knew--somehow reminds
me of your old Padre, though you couldn't meet two men more different.
And what I remembered was this. 'The test of any picture, or indeed of
any of the arts, is whether or not it evokes ecstasy.' I don't know
whether it's the test of the arts, but I know it's the test of life. And
that is what I've lost. Ecstasy! One still feels it now and again, of
course, but how more and more rarely! Well, I lay on the lawn, with this
light flooding in on me, and suddenly I opened my eyes and what do you
think I saw? There was a flock of starlings in the sky, and I opened my
eyes full on 'em, so that I got 'em against the west, which was full of
sunset. They were flying in a dense mass between me and the glow. I
could see their beating wings in serried ranks of black V-shapes. And,
quite suddenly, at some bird-command communicated--heaven knows how--the
whole flock of them heeled over, presenting nothing but the narrow edge
of their wings, hair-fine, all but invisible. In that one flashing
moment the whole solid crowd of birds seemed to vanish, as though
swallowed up by a shutter of sky. I'd never seen it before, and I might
have gone through life without the luck to see it. I can tell you, it
made me tingle. I could have shouted aloud, but the sound of my own
voice would have spoilt it so. I got ecstasy all right that time, and I
realised with a pang of gratefulness that it's the impersonal things
that produce ecstasy. In personal contact you may get delirium, but
that's not the same thing. This, says I, is the sort of thing I'm after.
And so of course I thought of you and that wonderful place of yours and
that nice solid impersonality that always wrapped you round and made you
so restful. So I'm coming down. I won't stay with you; find me digs
somewhere--I'm better on my own."

Ishmael read so far, where the letter ended abruptly; there was,
however, a postscript:--"P.S.--Do you remember Judith Parminter? She
wants a holiday and is coming down with a friend. If Mrs. Penticost is
still in the land of the living you might fix up for them there."

Ishmael followed out all Killigrew's instructions, but that night he
took the letter over to Boase. It was as though the atmosphere of the
old days re-established by its arrival, the habit of the old days,
claimed him sub-consciously. The Parson read it, but did not comment
beyond the obvious remark that it would