But Mr. Russell, with a mind steering a tangled course, asked for nothing better.  He was very nearly sure of romance for the first time in his life.

I hope that the feeling of making poetry is not confined to the people who write it down.  There is no luxury like it, and I hope we all share it.  I think perhaps the same thrill that goes through Mr. Russell and me when the ghost of a completed thing begins to be seen, also delights the khaki coster who writes his first—­and very likely last—­love-letter from France; and the little old country mother who lies awake composing the In Memoriam of her son for a local paper; and the burglar “down ’Oxton” who takes off his cap as a child’s funeral goes by.  The feeling is:  “This is a thing out of my heart that I am showing.  This is my best confession, and nobody knew there was this within me.”  I am sure that that great glory of poetry in one’s heart does not wait on achievement.  If it did, what centuries would die unglorified.  It is just perfection appearing, to your equal pride and shame, a perfection that never taunts you with your limitations.

Mr. Russell and Christina knew well their road through the mist that afternoon.  There was no difficulty in the world, and no need to see or to think.  The sign-posts all spoke the names of fated places.  It was useless for Anonyma to study the map, she found no mention there of the enchanted way on which their course was set.

“We will not go through Launceston,” said Anonyma.  “There must be a quicker way to the sea than that.”

Mr. Russell cared not for her and cared not for Launceston.  The spell was cast upon Christina’s wheels.  There was no escaping the appointed way.  Launceston reached out its net and caught them.  Almost as far as the post office, Anonyma was protesting:  “We will not go through Launceston.”

“Launceston was determined to get us,” laughed Mrs. Russell.  “Ha-ha! isn’t it humorous the way things happen?”

The sun was setting as they first saw the Cornish sea.  The sky was swept suddenly clear of mist.  The seagulls against the sky were like little crucified angels.

The road ran to the shore.

The sun had little delicate clouds across its face, like the islands in a Japanese painting.  The wet rocks that lay in the sun’s path were plated with gold, and the tall waves with shadowed faces made of that path a ladder.  The fields of foam on the sea looked very blue in the pale light.

The sun was like an angel with a flaming sword.  The angel dipped his feet into the sea.

The sun was like a flaming stage for the comedies of gods.  A ship passed dramatically across it.  One’s dazzled eyes saw great phantom ships all over the sea.

The sun was like a monster with horns of fire that pierced one’s two eyes.  And gradually it sank.

The sun was like a word written between the sea and the sky, a word that was swallowed up by the sea before any man had time to read it.  There was suddenly no sun.  The little forsaken clouds were like flames for a moment, and then they were blown out.