The pressing want to produce is as wholly natural, as innate, as
independent of the individual's volition as the conceptive impulse
itself.
And it was thus with me.
I could not be said to wish to publish from this or that motive,
because of this, that, or the other. I was simply dominated by the
instinct to do so, which grew more and more urgent as it found no
gratification.
It had risen now rampant at this last rebuff, and it seemed to rage
about in my brain like a Bengal tiger in a net.
I walked up and down the long dining-room, backwards and forwards,
from the grate where the fire blazed to the glass-panelled sideboard
at the other end, where its reflection sparkled, yawning every now
and then from sheer nervous irritation. "Cursed, infernal nuisance!"
I had just muttered this when the door was pushed open, but the
enterer, on hearing my exclamation, promptly drew it to again, and
would have shut it, but that I caught the handle.
It was the butler.
"What do you want, Simmonds," I said.
"Nothing, sir. I was told to enquire if you was in."
"Well, I am."
"Yes, sir. Please, Mr. Hilton said was you ready for dinner?"
"Certainly; and, Simmonds, where's Nous?"
"Tied up, sir, in the stable."
"Tied up! Again! I gave orders he was never to be tied up!"
"Yes, sir; but please, sir, he was that dirty and muddy to go
scrimmaging over the house, and it's the ruination of the furniture-
-"
"The dog is not to be tied up," I interrupted.
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