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He had
thoughtlessly called to express his sympathy, to see those celebrated
cannas, and because he could not bear to be alone with his thoughts
just then.
"Suffering!" exclaimed Mr. Keith. "That is what you young poets want.
At present you are too unperplexed and glib. Suffering! It would
enlarge your repertoire; it would make you more human, individual, and
truthful. What is the unforgivable sin in poetry? Lack of candour. How
shall there be candour if the poet lacks worldly experience? Suffering!
That is what you people want. It would make men of you."
Mr. Keith was considerably denser than Count Caloveglia. But even he,
during this oration, could not help noticing that it jarred on his
listener's nerves; there was something wrong, he concluded.
Denis had not a word to say in reply. As if anyone could be more
suffering than himself! He was full of a dumb ache. He marvelled at
Keith's obtuseness.
"Come and see my cannas," said the other with a kind of brutal
tactfulness. "There is a curious story attached to them.


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