Having delivered a technical lecture, he
began to read in illustration, producing quite a different effect
from that of the rhythm as given by his friend. And the reading
was by no means that of a pedant, rather of a poet.
For half an hour the two men talked Greek metres as if they lived
in a world where the only hunger known could be satisfied by
grand or sweet cadences.
They had first met in an amusing way. Not long after the
publication of his book 'On Neutral Ground' Reardon was spending
a week at Hastings. A rainy day drove him to the circulating
library, and as he was looking along the shelves for something
readable a voice near at hand asked the attendant if he had
anything 'by Edwin Reardon.' The novelist turned in astonishment;
that any casual mortal should inquire for his books seemed
incredible. Of course there was nothing by that author in the
library, and he who had asked the question walked out again. On
the morrow Reardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of
the shore; he looked at him, and spoke a word or two of common
civility; they got into conversation, with the result that Edwin
told the story of yesterday.
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