Hugh was
sitting in a corner of Mr. Lasher's study, looking at Dor?'s "Don
Quixote," when the two gentlemen came in. He was sitting in a dark
corner and they, because they were angry with one another, did not
recognise any one except themselves. Mr. Lasher pulled furiously at his
pipe and Mr. Pidgen stood up by the fire with his short fat legs spread
wide and his mouth smiling, but his eyes vexed and rather indignant.
"My dear Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "you misunderstand me, you do indeed!
It may be (I would be the first to admit that, like most men, I have my
weakness) that I lay too much stress upon the healthy, physical, normal
life, upon seeing things as they are and not as one would like to see
them to be. I don't believe that dreaming ever did any good to any man!"
"It's only produced some of the finest literature the world has ever
known," said Mr. Pidgen.
"Ah! Genius! If you or I were geniuses, Pidgen, that would be another
affair. But we're not; we're plain, common-place humdrum human beings
with souls to be saved and work to do--work to do!"
There was a little pause after that, and Hugh, looking at Mr.
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