By Ethel Rolt-Wheeler, Austin Osman Spare
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Why, yes: one must have a hobby, Louis. ment. ' It is When birds' eggs,' said a hobby full of poetry, of romance, of sentiI was young, it took me out into the open THE CURL 47 woods, out in the springtime, out in the early morning. Every specimen I collected made me more exquisitely aware of the marvels of creation, and woke in me new wonder for supreme artistry of colour and curve. Have you ever pondered over a bird's egg, Richard, over the frail brittleness that encloses the germ of sublime music?
But a child, a little girl one is never too old to love a child It is what the chateau wants beyond all else childish laughter, the patter of childish feet. O Richard, think what you have given me hand ' ' ! . . . a little child, me to be with always I die But I till ! good It is ' it is He good that you came leaned on me, almost overcome. understand. Only in my heart ... I could not was a great void a pitiful cry for that childish laughter, the patter of childish feet, which I should never hear.
Then he put his he puzzles you,' continued, with a my No Englishman is like that you are whimsical smile. material, and must have the substance you do not understand that a dream has as actual an existence as a reality. ' If there had ever really been a woman,' I began. I know. ' I took up the curl, examining it curiously. At one time I * Perhaps. hand on Still, there arm. ' is the curl,' he said. It ' : ; We : ' ' had given some study to physiology. But this is not woman's hair,' I remarked, without thought.