CHAPTER VIII
"Sanidin?" queried Denis almost flippantly, as he held up a fragment of rock.
He was not particularly eager to hear Marten's answer. He had thought, only a few days ago, that he would like to be a geologist; Marten had inspired him with a fancy for that science. The fit was already passing.
How quickly this geological mood had evaporated. How quickly everything evaporated, nowadays.
All was not well with Denis. Early that morning he had tried his hand at poetry once more, after a long interval. Four words—that was all the inspiration which had come to him.
"Or vine-wreathed Tuscany…."
A pretty turn, in the earlier manner of Keats. It looked well on the snowy paper. "Or vine-wreathed Tuscany." He was content with that phrase, so far as it went. But where was the rest of t
