Spinks the
resemblance (amounting to identity) between himself and the Manx arms.
"Three legs, rampant, on the bend, proper. Amazin', isn't it?"
"It _is_ amazin'."
Feigning surprise and interest, Mr. Spinks relieved him of his candle;
and under that escort Mr. Rickman managed to attain to the second
floor.
Mr. Rickman's room was bared to the glimmer of a lamp in the street
below. He plunged and stumbled through a litter of books. The glimmer
fell on the books, on many books; books that covered three walls from
floor to ceiling; books ranged above and beside the little camp-bed in
the corner; books piled on the table and under it. The glimmer fell,
too, on the mantel-piece, reflected from the glass above it, right on
to the white statuette of the Venus of Milo that supported a
photograph of a dancing Poppy--Poppy, who laughed in the face of the
goddess with insatiable impudence, and flung to the immortal forehead
the flick of her shameless foot. White and austere gleamed the Venus
(if Venus she be, for some say she is a Wingless Victory, and Rickman,
when sober, inclined to that opinion). White and austere gleamed the
little camp-bed in the corner. He ignored Mr. Spinks' discreet
suggestion. He wasn't going to undress to please Spinks or anybody.
He'd see Spinks in another world first. He wasn't going to bed like a
potman; he was going to sit up like a poet and write. That's what he
was going to do.
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