It grew, fed by
sources he was not aware of. It developed of itself--changed and lived
and flashed. Some creative fairy hand had touched him while he slept
perhaps. The starry sympathy poured through him, and he thought with
his feelings as well as with his mind.
At first he was half ashamed of it; the process was so new and
strange; he even attempted to conceal his method, because he could not
explain or understand it. 'This is emotional, not intellectual,' he
sighed to himself; 'it must be second childhood. I'm old. They'll call
it decadent!' Presently, however, he resigned himself to the delicious
flow of inspiration, and let it pour out till it flowed over into his
daily life as well. Through his heart it welled up and bubbled forth,
a thing of children, starlight, woods, and fairies.
Yet he was shy about it. He would talk about the story, but would not
read it out. 'It's a new _genre_ for me,' he explained shyly, 'an
attempt merely. We'll see what comes of it. My original idea, you see,
has grown out of hand rather. I wake every morning with something
fresh, as though'--he hesitated a moment, glancing towards his wife--
'as if it came to me in sleep,' he concluded. He felt her common sense
might rather despise him for it.
'Perhaps it does,' said Rogers.
'Why not?' said Mother, knitting on the sofa that was her bed at
night.
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