first battle, fought and finished,” Martin said to the looking-glass ten days later. “But there will be a second battle, and a third battle, and battles to the end of time, unless – ”
He had not finished the sentence, but looked about his little room, and his eyes saw a heap of returned manuscripts, still in their long envelopes, which lay in a corner on the floor.
He sat down and regarded the table thoughtfully. There were ink stains upon it, and he suddenly discovered that he loved it very much.
“Dear old table,” he said, “I’ve spent some happy hours with you, and you are a good friend of mine.”
He dropped his arms upon the table and buried his face in them. His throat was aching, and he wanted to cry.
His knees were trembling under him, he felt faint, and he went to the bed. He looked about the room, perplexed, alarmed, wondering where he was, until he caught sight of the pile of manuscripts in the corner. He arose to his feet and confronted himself in the looking-glass.
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