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same time, for his thoughts chased one another through his
brain and yet seemed to stand together, in a hopeless confu-
sion, like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle seen in a nightmare,
he asked himself what he was going to do. Everything was
so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long within reach
at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected
this new obstacle. Philip had never been able to surmount
what he acknowledged was a defect in his resolute desire
for a well ordered life, and that was his passion for living
in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his work at
the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements
for his travels. In the past he had often tried not to think
too circumstantially of his plans for the future, it was only
discouraging; but now that his goal was so near he saw no
harm in giving away to a longing that was so difficult to re-
sist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was the land
of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its
romance and colour and history and grandeur; he felt that
it had a message for him in particular which no other coun-
try could give. He knew the fine old cities already as though
he had trodden their tortuous streets from childhood. Cor-
dova, Seville, Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The great
painters of Spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse
beat quickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to
face with those works which were more significant than any
others to his own tortured, restless heart. He had read the
great poets, more characteristic of their race than the poets
of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn their inspi-
ration not at all from the general currents of the world’s

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