XXXIX 



OF PURFLING AGAIN, WITH A COLLOQUY 



IS 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 simu- 

 lating a willow, because there were three of those 

 trees close to him. But I for one was not de- 

 ceived. 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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