'You may come out of your trance.
You have done admirably.'
"'Wonderful,' breathed Farrell; and he breathed it heavily.
'I won't say I'd actually arrived at a plain-boiled potato--'
"'But it was floating in your brain,' I chimed him down.
'Such is the province of imaginative art, of poetry, as defined
by that great Englishman, Samuel Johnson. It reproduces our
common thoughts with a great increase of sensibility.'
"'Mr. Caffyn has put it rightways, anyhow,' Farrell insisted.
'Look here, Doctor'--he calls me by that title and none other--
'What's the programme for to-morrow.'
"'Versailles,' said I.
"'Then we'll make it so. But, the day after, I'm for England.
. . . I don't mind telling you, Mr. Caffyn, that the Doctor
and me hit it off first-class.'
"'I've noted it,' said Caffyn quietly.
"'And it's the rummier,' Farrell pursued, 'because him and me--
or, as I should say, he and I--started this tour upon what you
might call a mutual--what's the word? misunderstanding?--no, I
have it--antipathy.
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