Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language many-coloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose? He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again. "'Him'?" "He ought to BE here--he ought to help. " "While you," I concurred, "caught your death in the night air!" He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly to assent. Stephen had turned his smiling eyes towards his friend's face, flattered by his confidence and won over to sympathy by the speaker's simple accent.