Get on to her stride!
--he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a
thousand.
Back in the old _Voice_ office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands
sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds.
I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had
happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular
incident. He couldn't know that it is as well to face a tigress as an
artist whose mental offspring you have injured.
No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier
moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn't know that Henry,
the drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two
quite different persons. In Mr Boice's familiar circles they played
duplicate whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with
the mysteries of dual personality such as appear in the case of any
genius, great or small.
Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake
or his works) did the immortal line come to mind;--
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Mr Boice was obliged to give it up.