'They will continue to feed each other in this delicious spiritual way
from a distance, sir. Only--the chances are--that they will meet, for
their thought already connects them vitally, though as yet
unrealised.'
There was a considerable pause. Rogers lit his pipe. Minks, feeling he
ought to stand while his master did so, also rose from his chair. The
older man turned; they faced each other for a moment, Rogers putting
smoke violently into the air between them.
'Minks, my dear fellow,' he observed, 'you are, as I have always
thought, a poet. You have ideas, and, whether true or not, they are
rather lovely. Write them out for others to read. Use your spare time
writing them out. I'll see to it that you have more leisure.'
With a laugh the big man moved abruptly past his chair and knocked his
pipe on the edge of the ash-bowl. His eye, as he did so, fell upon the
pile of letters and papers arranged so neatly on the table. He
remembered the lateness of the hour--and other things besides.
'Well, well,' he said vaguely with a sigh; 'so here we are again back
at work in London.'
Minks had turned, too, realising that the surprising conversation was
over. A great excitement was in him. He did not feel in the least
tired. An unusual sense of anticipation was in the air. He could not
make it out at all.
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