"It is impossible, absurd!" And on the morrow I awoke to find in myself a longing to see him again.

I wanted to see him mastering men in discussion, the war-note in his voice; to see him, in all his certitude and strength, shattering their complacency, shaking them out of their ruts of thinking.

What if he did swashbuckle?
To use his own phrase, "it worked," it produced effects.

And, besides, his swashbuckling was a fine thing to see.

It stirred one like the onset of battle.
Several days passed during which I read Ernest's books, borrowed from my father.