range fever burned inexpressibly inside
him. Was he the only one who felt the challenge offered by the maddening
fertility and foison of the hot sun-dazzled earth? Life, he realized,
was too amazing to be frittered out in this aimless sickness of heart.
There were truths and wonders to be grasped, if he could only throw off
this wistful vague desire. He felt like a clumsy strummer seated at a
dark shining grand piano, which he knows is capable of every glory of
rolling music, yet he can only elicit a few haphazard chords.

He had his moments of arrogance, too. Ah, he was very young! This
miracle of blue unblemished sky that had baffled all others since life
began--he, he would unriddle it! He was inclined to sneer at his friends
who took these things for granted, and did not perceive the infamous
insolubility of the whole scheme. Remembering the promises made at
the christening, he took the children to church; but alas, carefully
analyzing his mind, he admitted that his attention had been chiefly
occupied with keeping them orderly, and he had gone through the service
almost automatically. Only in singing hymns did he experience a tingle
of exalted feeling. But Mr. Poodle was proud of his well-trained choir,
and Gissing had a feeling that the congregation was not supposed to do
more than murmur the verses, for fear of spoiling the effect. In his
favourite hymns he had a tendency to forget himself and let go: his
vigorous tenor rang lustily. Then he realized that the backs of people's
heads looked surprised. The children could not be kept quiet unless
they stood up on the pews. Mr. Poodle preached rather a long sermon, and
Yelpers, toward twelve-thirty, remarked in a clear tone of interested
inquiry, "What time does God have dinner?"

Gissing had a painful feeling that he and Mr. Poodle did not thoroughly
understand each other. The curate, who was kindness itself, called one
evening, and they had a friendly chat. Gissing was pleased to find
that Mr. Poodle enjoyed a cigar, and after some hesitation ventured to
suggest that he still had something in the cellar. Mr. Poodle said that
he didn't care for anything, but his host could not help hearing the
curate's tail quite unconsciously thumping on the chair cushions. So he
excused himself and brought up one of his few remaining bottles of
White Horse. Mr. Poodle crossed his legs and they chatted about golf,
politics, the income tax, and some of the recent books; but when Giss