ike my rhododendrons. How many die in every novel
that's written--the best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. It's
life's fault. Here's Minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at
t'other end of the line--are we past Lewes?--there must be Jimmy--or
what's her twitch for?

There must be Moggridge--life's fault. Life imposes her laws; life
blocks the way; life's behind the fern; life's the tyrant; oh, but not
the bully! No, for I assure you I come willingly; I come wooed by Heaven
knows what compulsion across ferns and cruets, table splashed and
bottles smeared. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the
firm flesh, in the robust spine, wherever I can penetrate or find
foothold on the person, in the soul, of Moggridge the man. The enormous
stability of the fabric; the spine tough as whalebone, straight as
oak-tree; the ribs radiating branches; the flesh taut tarpaulin; the red
hollows; the suck and regurgitation of the heart; while from above meat
falls in brown cubes and beer gushes to be churned to blood again--and
so we reach the eyes. Behind the aspidistra they see something: black,
white, dismal; now the plate again; behind the aspidistra they see
elderly woman; "Marsh's sister, Hilda's more my sort;" the tablecloth
now. "Marsh would know what's wrong with Morrises ..." talk that over;
cheese has come; the plate again; turn it round--the enormous fingers;
now the woman opposite. "Marsh's sister--not a bit like Marsh; wretched,
elderly female.... You should feed your hens.... God's truth, what's
set her twitching? Not what _I_ said? Dear, dear, dear! these elderly
women. Dear, dear!"

[Yes, Minnie; I know you've twitched, but one moment--James Moggridge].

"Dear, dear, dear!" How beautiful the sound is! like the knock of a
mallet on seasoned timber, like the throb of the heart of an ancient
whaler when the seas press thick and the green is clouded. "Dear, dear!"
what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and
solace them, lap them in linen, saying, "So long. Good luck to you!" and
then, "What's your pleasure?" for though Moggridge would pluck his rose
for her, that's done, that's over. Now what's the next thing? "Madam,
you'll miss your train," for they don't linger.

That's the man's way; that's the sound that reverberates; that's St.
Paul's and the motor-omnibuses. But we're brushing the crumbs off. Oh,
Moggridge, you won't stay? You must be off? Are you driving through
Ea