It didn't happen often, but they felt it terrible that it should happen at all--to him.

They touched it tenderly; if it was not exactly part of his poetry it was part of his pathos.

The shop was responsible for it.

He ought never, never to have been there.
And yet, bad as it was, they felt that he must be consoled, sustained by what he knew about himself, what it was inconceivable that he should not know.
He may, indeed, have reflected with some complacency that in spite of everything, his great classic drama, _Helen in Leuce_, was lying finished in the dressing-table drawer in his bedroom, and that for the last month those very modern poems that he called _Saturnalia_ had been careering through the columns of _The Planet_.

But at the moment he was mainly supported by the coming of Easter..