Viereck, George Sylvester, 1884-1962 / 2008-06-29 00:00:00
But to-night they shrivelled into insignificance before the
splendour of his inner vision. A radiant dreamland palace, his play, had
risen from the night of inchoate thought. It was wonderful, it was real,
and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction.
And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were
yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of
paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful
mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his
reverie.
"Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away
from here."
"That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered.
"When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my
presence."
"Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?"
"Clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. I
suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked
surprised--not even pleasantly.
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