“I have lost something and till yesterday I couldn’t for the life of me tell what,” wrote Killigrew.  “It’s been a good time, and I’ve enjoyed most of it, but suddenly it occurred to me that really I wasn’t enjoying it as much as I thought I was, as much as I used to.  I lay on the lawn of this confounded suburban villa whence I’m writing to you now—­I’m putting in a few days at my mother’s—­and I was doing nothing particular but think over a lot of old times.  And there came into my mind without any warning—­flashed into it rather—­a saying of my old master’s in Paris.  He was a wise old bird, the wisest I ever knew—­somehow reminds me of your old Padre, though you couldn’t meet two men more different.  And what I remembered was this.  ’The test of any picture, or indeed of any of the arts, is whether or not it evokes ecstasy.’  I don’t know whether it’s the test of the arts, but I know it’s the test of life.  And that is what I’ve lost.  Ecstasy!  One still feels it now and again, of course, but how more and more rarely!  Well, I lay on the lawn, with this light flooding in on me, and suddenly I opened my eyes and what do you think I saw?  There was a flock of starlings in the sky, and I opened my eyes full on ’em, so that I got ’em against the west, which was full of sunset.  They were flying in a dense mass between me and the glow.  I could see their beating wings in serried ranks of black V-shapes.  And, quite suddenly, at some bird-command communicated—­heaven knows how—­the whole flock of them heeled over, presenting nothing but the narrow edge of their wings, hair-fine, all but invisible.  In that one flashing moment the whole solid crowd of birds seemed to vanish, as though swallowed up by a shutter of sky.  I’d never seen it before, and I might have gone through life without the luck to see it.  I can tell you, it made me tingle.  I could have shouted aloud, but the sound of my own voice would have spoilt it so.  I got ecstasy all right that time, and I realised with a pang of gratefulness that it’s the impersonal things that produce ecstasy.  In personal contact you may get delirium, but that’s not the same thing.  This, says I, is the sort of thing I’m after.  And so of course I thought of you and that wonderful place of yours and that nice solid impersonality that always wrapped you round and made you so restful.  So I’m coming down.  I won’t stay with you; find me digs somewhere—­I’m better on my own.”

Ishmael read so far, where the letter ended abruptly; there was, however, a postscript:—­“P.S.—­Do you remember Judith Parminter?  She wants a holiday and is coming down with a friend.  If Mrs. Penticost is still in the land of the living you might fix up for them there.”