’ THE WAVES 
he hears nothing. He is remote from us all in a pagan 
universe. But look—he flicks his hand to the back of his 
neck. For such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a 
lifetime. Dalton, Jones, Edgar and Bateman flick their 
hands to the backs of their necks likewise. But they do not 
succeed.” 
“At last,” said Bernard, * the growl ceases. The sermon 
ends. He has minced the dance of the white butterflies 
at the door to powder. His rough and hairy voice is like 
an unshaven chin. Now he lurches back to his seat like a 
drunken sailor. It is an action that all the other masters 
will try to imitate ; but, being flimsy, being floppy, wearing 
grey trousers, they will only succeed in making themselves 
ridiculous. I do not despise them. Their antics seem 
pitiable in my eyes. I note the fact for future reference with 
many others in my notebook. When I am grown up I shall 
carry a notebook—a fat book with many pages, methodically 
lettered. I shall enter my phrases. Under B shall come 
‘ Butterfly powder.’ If, in my novel, I describe the sun on the 
window-sill, I shall look under B and find butterfly powder. 
That will be useful. The tree ‘shades the window with 
green fingers.” That will be useful. But alas! I am so 
soon distracted—by a hair like twisted candy, by Celia’s 
Prayer Book, ivory covered. Louis can contemplate nature, 
unwinking, by the hour. Soon I fail, unless talked to. 
‘The lake of my mind, unbroken by oars, heaves placidly 
and soon sinks into an oily somnolence.” That will be useful.” 
“ Now we move out of this cool temple, into the yellow 
playing-fields,” said Louis. “And, as it is a half-holiday 
(the Duke’s birthday) we will settle among the long grasses, 
while they play cricket. Could I be * they’ I would choose 
it; I would buckle on my pads and stride across the playing- 
field at the head of the batsmen. Look now, how everybody 
follows Percival. He is heavy. He walks clumsily down 
the field, through the long grass, to where the great elm 
trees stand, His magnificence is that of some mediaeval 
commander. A wake of light seems to lic on the grass 
26