I grew
warm over it, and impassioned; and when I had done, she professed
conversion, but in my heart of hearts I knew it to be compassion. I
fled to other friends for consolation. I retold the story of the
poppy. They did not appear supremely interested. I grew excited.
They were surprised and pained. They looked at me curiously. "It
ill-befits your dignity to squabble over poppies," they said. "It is
unbecoming."
I fled away to yet other friends. I sought vindication. The thing
had become vital, and I needs must put myself right. I felt called
upon to explain, though well knowing that he who explains is lost. I
told the story of the poppy over again. I went into the minutest
details. I added to it, and expanded. I talked myself hoarse, and
when I could talk no more they looked bored. Also, they said insipid
things, and soothful things, and things concerning other things, and
not at all to the point. I was consumed with anger, and there and
then I renounced them all.
At the bungalow I lie in wait for chance visitors.
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