"It's typewritten. Will you take a look at it? I've been trying to get
to work again," he explained, thrusting the manuscript into my hand.
"What? Poetry, I hope?" I exclaimed.
He shook his head with a gleam of derision. "No--just general
considerations. The fruit of fifty years of inexperience."
He showed me to my room and said good-night.
*****
The following afternoon we took a long walk inland, across the hills,
and I said to Merrick what I could of his book. Unluckily there wasn't
much to say. The essays were judicious, polished and cultivated; but
they lacked the freshness and audacity of his youthful work. I tried
to conceal my opinion behind the usual generalisations, but he broke
through these feints with a quick thrust to the heart of my meaning.
"It's worn down--blurred? Like the figures in the Cumnors' tapestry?"