er
fell on the books, on many books; books that covered three walls from
floor to ceiling; books ranged above and beside the little camp-bed in
the corner; books piled on the table and under it. The glimmer fell,
too, on the mantel-piece, reflected from the glass above it, right on
to the white statuette of the Venus of Milo that supported a
photograph of a dancing Poppy--Poppy, who laughed in the face of the
goddess with insatiable impudence, and flung to the immortal forehead
the flick of her shameless foot. White and austere gleamed the Venus
(if Venus she be, for some say she is a Wingless Victory, and Rickman,
when sober, inclined to that opinion). White and austere gleamed the
little camp-bed in the corner. He ignored Mr. Spinks' discreet
suggestion. He wasn't going to undress to please Spinks or anybody.
He'd see Spinks in another world first. He wasn't going to bed like a
potman; he was going to sit up like a poet and write. That's what he
was going to do. This was his study.

With shaking hands he lit the lamp on his study table; the wick
sputtered, and the light in his head jigged horribly with the jigging
of the flame. It was as if he was being stabbed with little knives of
light.

He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, threw open his window
and leaned out into the pure regenerating night. Spinks sat down on a
chair and watched him, his fresh, handsome face clouded with anxiety.
He adored Rickman sober; but for Rickman drunk he had a curious
yearning affection. If anything, he preferred him in that state. It
seemed to bring him nearer to him. Spinks had never been drunk in his
life, but that was his feeling.

Rickman laid his arms upon the window sill and his head upon his arms.

"'The blessed damozel leaned out,'" he said (the idea in his mind
being that _he_ was a blessed damozel).

"'From the gold bar of heaven.'"

("Never knew they had 'em up there," murmured Spinks.)

"'Her eyes were deeper than the depth of waters stilled at
even'--Oh--my--God!"

A great sigh shook him, and went shuddering into the night like the
passing of a lost soul. He got up and staggered to the table, and
grasped it by the edge, nearly upsetting the lamp. The flare in his
brain had died down as the lamp burnt steadily. Under its shade a
round of light fell on his Euripides, open at the page he had been
reading the night before.

[Greek: ELENE]

He saw it very black, with the edges a little wavering, a little