tugged at his pen, tempting it in prohibited directions; he wrestled for a while and then let himself go and fairly wallowed in that thing Ailie called Words We Have No Concern With. For a book or two he simply turned the tears on and off insatiably, like a lad who sees taps for the first time. He even set Lang Tammas greeting: "his mouth worked convulsively, and he sobbed, crying, "Nobody kent it, but mair than mortal son, O God, did I love the lad'"—the lad being his well-matured minister. You Southerners felt uneasy—and indeed you had some cause. Mr. Arnold Bennett lifted up his voice and pointed out the dangerous sickliness of "that excessively profitable lump of sweet-stuff The Little Minister, We were reminded, a minute ago, of Dominie Cathro branding Tommy. Destiny seemed to be on the point of doing the same to Barrie, marking his forehead with the fatal sign S. B. It was the approach of that dread finger that drove Barrie to the Bottle. He drank—he shrank—he ducked—he disappeared. He left reality behind him and leaped into the land where he could satisfy his wicked craving without shame—the land where prettiness is proper and make-believe is truth — where the official language is entirely formed of Words We Have No Concern With, and a kiss is no more thought of than — a thimble.
III
Of Barrie's travels and adventures in that Never-Never Land of elvishness one could easily write a breathless book; but our concern just now is mainly with that particular part of the journey which led him at last up into Quality Street. He had a glorious time down there—yet I would have you think of him throughout it all as longing, longing, as wistfully as any other mortal lost in fairyland, for some means of
