He rose late; through the day a shadow grew blacker round his jaw for lack of shaving, and he shuffled about the house in carpet slippers, or paced the garden, talking to himself or droning “The Wearing of the Green”; in the late afternoon he went to his study and worked there through the evening, through the night, into the morning. At such times a stranger would have thought him a seedy eccentric, whose life had been a failure and whose substance was now failing, and might have pitied Mamma and even his children for having to live with him. But it was then that he was most like Mamma in vigorous purpose; for it always meant that he was writing something less ephemeral than his usual journalism, a pamphlet or an essay to be included in a book. We felt a special reverence for him then, though we were always sensible that he was not lucky. No creation was painless, Mamma had told us, the composers also wrestled with angels by night and by day. But surely they had kindlier adversaries, who, when they succumbed, embraced and were reconciled.
