They were printed in blunt type on
thick yellowish paper, the edges of which seemed as if they had been
cut by the forefinger of an impatient reader, so ragged and irregular
were they, and they were bound in vellum, the titles of these two slim
flowers of poetry, "Flotsam" and "Jetsam," were printed in black letter
type and the covers were further adorned with a sort of embossed seal
and with antique looking tapes so that you could tie it all up with two
bows when you had finished with Mr Lucas's "Flotsam" for the time
being, and turned to untie the "Jetsam."
Today the prose-poem of "Loneliness" had not been getting on very well,
and Philip Lucas was glad to hear the click of the garden-gate, which
showed that his loneliness was over for the present, and looking up he
saw his wife's figure waveringly presented to his eyes through the
twisted and knotty glass of the parlour window, which had taken so long
to collect, but which now completely replaced the plain, commonplace
unrefracting stuff which was there before. He jumped up with an
alacrity remarkable in so solid and well-furnished a person, and had
thrown open the nail-studded front-door before Lucia had traversed the
path of broken paving-stones, for she had lingered for a sad moment at
Perdita's empty border.
"_Lucia mia_!" he exclaimed. "_Ben arrivata_! So you walked
from the station?"
"_Si, Peppino, mio caro_," she said.
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