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“No, Guy; it can’t be done ... in music, perhaps, but that’s so vague.”

Guy felt a sudden sinking in his stomach: had he not himself invented a technique to do this very thing? He must find out at all costs what Teresa thought of his poetry.

“Don’t you think ...” he began nervously, “that modern poetry is getting much nearer to—to—er—processes?”

Teresa gave a little smile. So that was what it was all leading up to? Was there no one with whom she could discuss things simply and honestly for their own sake?

“Did you—er—ever by any chance read my poem on King’s Cross?”

“Yes. It was very good.”

She felt tempted to add, “It reminded me a little bit of Frith,” but she refrained. It would be very unkind and really not true.

Her praise, faint though it was, made Guy tingle all over with pleasure, and he tumbled out, in one breath, “Well, you see, it’s really a sort of trick (everything is). Grammar and logic must be thrown overboard, and it’s not that it’s easier to write without them, it’s much more difficult; Monsieur Jourdain was quite wrong in calling logic rébarbative; as a matter of fact, it’s damnably easy and seductive—so’s grammar; the Song of the Sirens was probably sung in faultless grammar ... and anyhow, it spoils everything. Now, just think of the most ridiculous line in the Prelude: