This afternoon, as I came out of the Island withy-bed and crossed the plank, I was aware of a figure, a little upstream, seated by the backwater, and knew it for Purfling. From his complete immobility it was clear that he was fishing. For the moment he was probably simulating a willow, because there were three of those trees close to him. But I for one was not deceived. His pretence was a failure. He did not look in the least like a willow. But he made a very impressive spectacle. He sat full in the glare of the sinking sun, and a little glory, as of purism, seemed to surround him. Wonder at the man possessed me that here, conscious of no human beholder, he could yet play his part, maintain his principles, be true to himself. For the first time I realised that Purfling was not a poseur, and, as the very last conceivable reason for him vanished, I broke the silence of the golden afternoon with something very like a guffaw. On
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