"They tell me in distant lands
men worship Time, set up a shrine to him in every street, and treasure
his emblem next their hearts. There, they say, even the lover babbles
of hours, and the dreamer measures sleep with a pendulum. Well, my
house is secluded, and the world is far; and to me Time is naught.
Return, sir, then, when it pleases you. Besides," he added, smiling
faintly, "there is always company at the World's End."
The crisp sunbeams rained upon his pale and delicate horse, its
equal-plaited mane, on the darkness of his cloak, that dream-delighted
face. Here smouldered gold, here flushed crimson, and here the curved
damaskening of his bridle glistened and gleamed. He was a strange
visitant to the open day, between the green hedges, beneath the
enormous branching of the elms. And there I bade him farewell.
Some day, perhaps, I shall return as he has foretold, for it is ever
easy to find again the house of Reverie--to them who have learned the
way.
On I journeyed, then, following as I had been directed the main road
to Vanity Fair. But whether it is that the Fair is more difficult to
arrive at than to depart from, or is really a hard day's journey even
from the gay parlour of the World's End, it already began to be
evening, and yet no sign of bunting or booth or clamour or smoke.
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