.
For aye.
"_Ouh_, my God!"
From head to heel he shook--shook from the marrow of his bones
outwards--then leaped to his feet with raised arms, and slid the chair
screeching across the tiled floor where it struck the drawers behind and
fell with a jar. Mechanically, I stooped to recover it.
As I rose, Mr. Shaynor was stretching and yawning at leisure.
"I've had a bit of a doze," he said. "How did I come to knock the chair
over? You look rather--"
"The chair startled me," I answered. "It was so sudden in this quiet."
Young Mr. Cashell behind his shut door was offendedly silent.
"I suppose I must have been dreaming," said Mr. Shaynor.
"I suppose you must," I said. "Talking of dreams--I--I noticed you
writing--before--"
He flushed consciously.
"I meant to ask you if you've ever read anything written by a man called
Keats."
"Oh! I haven't much time to read poetry, and I can't say that I remember
the name exactly. Is he a popular writer?"
"Middling. I thought you might know him because he's the only poet who
was ever a druggist. And he's rather what's called the lover's poet."
"Indeed. I must dip into him. What did he write about?"
"A lot of things. Here's a sample that may interest you."
Then and there, carefully, I repeated the verse he had twice spoken and
once written not ten minutes ago.
"Ah. Anybody could see he was a druggist from that line about the
tinctures and syrups.
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