simple and well made。 And preserve me from nature； preserve me from
all that's inhumanly large and complicated and obscure。 I haven't the
courage； and； above all； I haven't the time to start wandering in that
labyrinth。〃
While Mr。 Scogan was discoursing； Denis had crossed over to the
farther side of the little square chamber； where Anne was sitting； still in
her graceful； lazy pose； on the low chair。
〃Well？〃 he demanded； looking at her almost fiercely。 What was he
asking of her？ He hardly knew himself。
Anne looked up at him； and for answer echoed his 〃Well？〃 in another；
a laughing key。
Denis had nothing more； at the moment； to say。 Two or three
canvases stood in the corner behind Anne's chair； their faces turned to the
wall。 He pulled them out and began to look at the paintings。
〃May I see too？〃 Anne requested。
He stood them in a row against the wall。 Anne had to turn round in
her chair to look at them。 There was the big canvas of the man fallen
from the horse； there was a painting of flowers； there was a small
landscape。 His hands on the back of the chair； Denis leaned over her。
From behind the easel at the other side of the room Mr。 Scogan was
talking away。 For a long time they looked at the pictures； saying nothing；
or； rather； Anne looked at the pictures； while Denis； for the most part；
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looked at Anne。
〃I like the man and the horse； don't you？〃 she said at last； looking up
with an inquiring smile。
Denis nodded； and then in a queer； strangled voice； as though it had
cost him a great effort to utter the words； he said； 〃I love you。〃
It was a remark which Anne had heard a good many times before and
mostly heard with equanimity。 But on this occasionperhaps because
they had come so unexpectedly ； perhaps for some other reasonthe words
provoked in her a certain surprised commotion。
〃My poor Denis；〃 she managed to say； with a laugh； but she was
blushing as she spoke。
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CHAPTER XXIV。
It was noon。 Denis； descending from his chamber； where he had been
making an unsuccessful effort to write something about nothing in
particular； found the drawing…room deserted。 He was about to go out into
the garden when his eye fell on a familiar but mysterious objectthe large
red notebook in which he had so often seen Jenny quietly and busily
scribbling。 She had left it lying on the window…seat。 The temptation
was great。 He picked up the book and slipped off the elastic band that
kept it discreetly closed。
〃Private。 Not to be opened；〃 was written in capital letters on the
cover。 He raised his eyebrows。 It was the sort of thing one wrote in
one's Latin Grammar while one was still at one's preparatory school。
〃Black is the raven； black is the rook； But blacker the theif who steals
this book！〃
It was curiously childish； he thought； and he smiled to himself。 He
opened the book。 What he saw made him wince as though he had been
struck。
Denis was his own severest critic； so； at least； he had always believed。
He liked to think of himself as a merciless vivisector probing into the
palpitating entrails of his own soul； he was Brown Dog to himself。 His
weaknesses； his absurditiesno one knew them better than he did。
Indeed； in a vague way he imagined that nobody beside himself was aware
of them at all。 It seemed； somehow； inconceivable that he should appear
to other people as they appeared to him； inconceivable that they ever
spoke of him among themselves in that same freely critical and； to be quite
honest； mildly malicious tone in which he was accustomed to talk of them。
In his own eyes he had defects； but to see them was a privilege reserved to
him alone。 For the rest of the world he was surely an image of flawless
crystal。 It was almost axiomatic。
On opening the red notebook that crystal image of himself crashed to
the ground； and was irreparably shattered。 He was not his own severest
critic after all。 The discovery was a painful one。
The fruit of Jenny's unobtrusive scribbling lay before him。 A
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caricature of himself； reading （the book was upside…down）。 In the
background a dancing couple； recognisable as Gombauld and Anne。
Beneath； the legend： 〃Fable of the Wallflower and the Sour Grapes。〃
Fascinated and horrified； Denis pored over the drawing。 It was masterful。
A mute； inglorious Rouveyre appeared in every one of those cruelly clear
lines。 The expression of the face； an assumed aloofness and superiority
tempered by a feeble envy； the attitude of the body and limbs； an attitude
of studious and scholarly dignity； given away by the fidgety pose of the
turned…in feetthese things were terrible。 And； more terrible still； was
the likeness； was the magisterial certainty with which his physical
peculiarities were all recorded and subtly exaggerated。
Denis looked deeper into the book。 There were caricatures of other
people： of Priscilla and Mr。 Barbecue…Smith； of Henry Wimbush； of
Anne and Gombauld； of Mr。 Scogan； whom Jenny had represented in a
light that was more than slightly sinister； that was； indeed； diabolic； of
Mary and Ivor。 He scarcely glanced at them。 A fearful desire to know
the worst about himself possessed him。 He turned over the leaves；
lingering at nothing that was not his own image。 Seven full pages were
devoted to him。
〃Private。 Not to be opened。〃 He had disobeyed the injunction； he
had only got what he deserved。 Thoughtfully he closed the book； and
slid the rubber band once more into its place。 Sadder and wiser； he went
out on to the terrace。 And so this； he reflected； this was how Jenny
employed the leisure hours in her ivory tower apart。 And he had thought
her a simple…minded； uncritical creature！ It was he； it seemed； who was
the fool。 He felt no resentment towards Jenny。 No； the distressing thing
wasn't Jenny herself； it was what she and the phenomenon of her red book
represented； what they stood for and concretely symbolised。 They
represented all the vast conscious world of men outside himself； they
symbolised something that in his studious solitariness he was apt not to
believe in。 He could stand at Piccadilly Circus； could watch the crowds
shuffle past； and still imagine himself the one fully conscious； intelligent；
individual being among all those thousands。 It seemed； somehow；
impossible that other people should be in their way as elaborate and
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complete as he in his。 Impossible； and yet； periodically he would make
some painful discovery about the external world and the horrible reality of
its consciousness and its intelligence。 The red notebook was one of these
discoveries； a footprint in the sand。 It put beyond a doubt the fact that
the outer world really existed。
Sitting on the balustrade of the terrace； he ruminated this unpleasant
truth for some time。 Still chewing on it； he strolled pensively down
towards the swimming…pool。 A peacock and his hen trailed their shabby
finery across the turf of the lower lawn。 Odious birds！ Their necks； thick
and greedily fleshy at the roots； tapered up to the cruel inanity of their
brainless heads； their flat eyes and piercing beaks。 The fabulists were
right； he reflected； when they took beasts to illustrate their tractates of
human morality。 Animals resemble men with all the truthfulness of a
caricature。 （Oh； the red notebook！） He threw a piece of stick at the
slowly pacing birds。 They rushed towards it； thinking it was something
to eat。
He walked on。 The profound shade of a giant ilex tree engulfed him。
Like a great wooden octopus； it spread its long arms abroad。
〃Under the spreading ilex tree。。。〃
He tried to remember who the poem was by； but couldn't。
〃The smith； a brawny man is he； With arms like rubber bands。〃
Just like his； he would have to try and do his Muller exercises more
regularly。
He emerged once more into the sunshine。 The pool lay before him；
reflecting in its bronze mirror the blue
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