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I am going to have a seraph of a time. I am going to
play the archangel.
I shall always have pleasant memories of Murglebed. Such an idea could
not have germinated in any other atmosphere. In the scented groves of
sunny lands there would have been sown Seeds of Regret, which would have
blossomed eventually into Flowers of Despair. I should have gone about
the world, a modern Admetus, snivelling at my accursed luck, without
even the chance of persuading a soft-hearted Alcestis to die for me. I
should have been a dismal nuisance to society.
"Bless you," I cried this afternoon, waving, as I leaned against a
post, my hand to the ambient mud, "Renniker was wrong! You are not a
God-forsaken place. You are impregnated with divine inspiration."
A muddy man in a blue jersey and filthy beard who occupied the next post
looked at me and spat contemptuously. I laughed.
"If you were Marcus Aurelius," said I, "I would make a joke--a short
life and an eumoiry one--and he would have looked as pained as you.


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