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“
You
look
bored
,
”
he
remarked
presently
;
“
thoroughly
bored
.
Or
else
—
let
me
see
;
you
’
re
not
married
,
are
you
?
”
He
asked
this
in
such
sad
earnestness
that
we
hastened
to
assure
him
we
were
not
married
,
though
we
felt
he
ought
to
have
known
that
much
;
we
had
been
intimate
for
some
time
.
“
Then
it
’
s
only
boredom
,
”
he
said
.
“
Just
satiety
and
world
-
weariness
.
Well
,
if
you
assure
me
you
aren
’
t
married
you
can
climb
into
this
cart
and
I
’
ll
take
you
for
a
drive
.
I
’
m
bored
,
too
.
I
want
to
do
something
dark
and
dreadful
and
exciting
.
”
We
clambered
in
,
of
course
,
yapping
with
delight
and
treading
all
over
his
toes
;
and
as
we
set
off
,
Harold
demanded
of
him
imperiously
whither
he
was
going
.
“
My
wife
,
”
he
replied
,
“
has
ordered
me
to
go
and
look
up
the
curate
and
bring
him
home
to
tea
.
Does
that
sound
sufficiently
exciting
for
you
?
”
Our
faces
fell
.
The
curate
of
the
hour
was
not
a
success
,
from
our
point
of
view
.
He
was
not
a
funny
man
,
in
any
sense
of
the
word
.
“
—
but
I
’
m
not
going
to
,
”
he
added
,
cheerfully
.
“
Then
I
was
to
stop
at
some
cottage
and
ask
—
what
was
it
?
There
was
NETTLE
-
RASH
mixed
up
in
it
,
I
’
m
sure
.
But
never
mind
,
I
’
ve
forgotten
,
and
it
doesn
’
t
matter
.
Look
here
,
we
’
re
three
desperate
young
fellows
who
stick
at
nothing
.
Suppose
we
go
off
to
the
circus
?
”
Of
certain
supreme
moments
it
is
not
easy
to
write
.
The
varying
shades
and
currents
of
emotion
may
indeed
be
put
into
words
by
those
specially
skilled
that
way
;
they
often
are
,
at
considerable
length
.
But
the
sheer
,
crude
article
itself
—
the
strong
,
live
thing
that
leaps
up
inside
you
and
swells
and
strangles
you
,
the
dizziness
of
revulsion
that
takes
the
breath
like
cold
water
—
who
shall
depict
this
and
live
?
All
I
knew
was
that
I
would
have
died
then
and
there
,
cheerfully
,
for
the
funny
man
;
that
I
longed
for
red
Indians
to
spring
out
from
the
hedge
on
the
dog
-
cart
,
just
to
show
what
I
would
do
;
and
that
,
with
all
this
,
I
could
not
find
the
least
little
word
to
say
to
him
.
Harold
was
less
taciturn
.
With
shrill
voice
,
uplifted
in
solemn
chant
,
he
sang
the
great
spheral
circus
-
song
,
and
the
undying
glory
of
the
Ring
.
Of
its
timeless
beginning
he
sang
,
of
its
fashioning
by
cosmic
forces
,
and
of
its
harmony
with
the
stellar
plan
.
Of
horses
he
sang
,
of
their
strength
,
their
swiftness
,
and
their
docility
as
to
tricks
.
Of
clowns
again
,
of
the
glory
of
knavery
,
and
of
the
eternal
type
that
shall
endure
.
Lastly
he
sang
of
Her
—
the
Woman
of
the
Ring
—
flawless
,
complete
,
untrammelled
in
each
subtly
curving
limb
;
earth
’
s
highest
output
,
time
’
s
noblest
expression
.
