THE MYSTERY. 49 



ful of the heated air, which air " was none." But no Fly was 

 there, bouncing against the dim green glass, too dim and dusty 

 to be mistaken, even by a Fly, for the thin pure ether. H 

 then rose and examined the dark corners of the room with its 

 cobweb hangings, lest perchance some hapless prisoner might 

 be detained therein ; but no, an attenuated spider, her body 

 wasted, like his own, by useless toils, was their only living 

 occupant. Yet, " buz ! buz ! buz !" resounded even louder, 

 shriller than before. " Confound it !" cried the bewildered poet, 

 and then rushed desperately to the corner cupboard, the sole 

 lurking place left unexplored. But what had Flies to do with 

 empty cupboards with poet's larders ? " Buz ! buz ! buz !" 

 again rose, as if in mockery at the very thought. He returned 

 hopeless to his chair: perhaps it was fancy after all, but 

 whether bred of fancy or of Fly, the sound had sufficed wholly 

 to demolish the luminous web of thought, whose first threads 

 had been broken by the untimely entrance of his tea. To his 

 tea therefore he applied himself, in hopes, perhaps, that it 

 might recompose, if it failed to re-exhilarate. The tea or the 

 tea-pot did certainly inspire one thought, perhaps that tor- 

 menting "buz" had been only the concluding stanza of the 

 kettle's song. Absurd idea ! the more so in that the kettle had 

 never sung at all ; it seldom sings in lodging-houses, and on 

 garret floors it has no heart to sing. The tea even, flat and 

 vapid as his mind, might have told him so, and presently the 

 Fly's voice, seemingly silenced, rose louder still, closer than 



