I had been
talking some time when Mrs. Ellis came into the room and said:
'Why are you sitting in the dark?' Ellis answered, 'But we are
not,' and then added in a voice of wonder, 'I thought the lamp was
lit and that I was sitting up, and I find I am in the dark and
lying down.' I had seen a flicker of light over the ceiling, but
had thought it a reflection from some light outside the house,
which may have been the case.
XV
I had already met most of the poets of my generation. I had said,
soon after the publication of 'The Wanderings of Usheen,' to the
editor of a series of shilling reprints, who had set me to compile
tales of the Irish fairies, 'I am growing jealous of other poets,
and we will all grow jealous of each other unless we know each
other and so feel a share in each other's triumph.' He was a
Welshman, lately a mining engineer, Ernest Rhys, a writer of Welsh
translations and original poems that have often moved me greatly
though I can think of no one else who has read them. He was seven
or eight years older than myself and through his work as editor
knew everybody who would compile a book for seven or eight pounds.
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