Chap­ter XXV begins with Hen­ry Wim­bush announc­ing the return of a long­stand­ing tradition—the Crome char­i­ty fair, to be held on Bank Hol­i­day. He describes its steady evo­lu­tion over the past two decades with a mix of civic pride and per­son­al reluc­tance. Though he finds lit­tle joy in the bus­tle of the event, he main­tains it for the ben­e­fit of the local hos­pi­tal, whose finan­cial gains have become an annu­al expec­ta­tion. The guests at the table, rep­re­sent­ing an eclec­tic mix of tem­pera­ments and tal­ents, are swift­ly assigned their roles. Anne takes the tea tent, fit­ting for her calm and com­pe­tent nature. Mary, full of ener­gy and cheer, will over­see the children’s sports. Mr. Sco­gan, as eccen­tric as ever, vol­un­teers to be a for­tune teller, promis­ing to don a mys­tic dis­guise. Gom­bauld, quick with a brush, agrees to be the light­ning artist. Denis, hes­i­tant and unsure, is left with the task of com­pos­ing an ode, though he insists poet­ry is not his strength.

The roles giv­en to each guest mir­ror their per­son­al­i­ties, but Denis’s assign­ment stings more than it flat­ters. His self-doubt ris­es as he con­tem­plates the chal­lenge, imag­in­ing him­self lost in emp­ty metaphors rather than inspired verse. The idea of writ­ing some­thing mean­ing­ful for an occa­sion so root­ed in local cheer and super­fi­cial gai­ety feels hol­low. Jen­ny, unboth­ered by such inter­nal dilem­mas, chimes in with a cheer­ful mem­o­ry of her drum-play­ing days, and quick­ly earns her place as the musi­cal pulse of the fair. Her enthu­si­asm brings a light­ness to the moment, one that con­trasts Denis’s qui­et dread. Even as the group laughs and dis­cuss­es cos­tumes and stalls, a sub­tle under­cur­rent of ten­sion flows beneath their ban­ter. For some, the fair is a pleas­ant diver­sion. For oth­ers, it becomes a mirror—reflecting their anx­i­eties, ambi­tions, or lack there­of.

The con­ver­sa­tion veers, as it often does, toward the philo­soph­i­cal. Mr. Sco­gan, always ready to frame the mun­dane with­in larg­er mean­ing, begins a mono­logue on hol­i­days. He declares that hol­i­days fail not because they are poor­ly planned, but because true escape is impos­si­ble. We bring ourselves—our habits, dis­ap­point­ments, and inner walls—wherever we go. He recounts how he once sought renew­al in a monastery, hop­ing silence and sim­plic­i­ty might cleanse him. Lat­er, he turned to aes­thet­ic immer­sion, sur­round­ing him­self with beau­ty, believ­ing it might change him. In both attempts, he found only tem­po­rary dis­trac­tion. With­in days, bore­dom seeped in, and he real­ized he had not changed. Only the scenery had.

His speech, rich with irony, points to a broad­er truth about human desire: we often seek trans­for­ma­tion through exter­nal shifts while avoid­ing the inter­nal work real change demands. Hol­i­days become small, hope­ful rebel­lions against monot­o­ny, but they rarely live up to the fan­ta­sy. Peo­ple return to their old rou­tines unchanged, if not slight­ly more tired. Scogan’s con­clu­sion is deliv­ered not with bit­ter­ness, but with dry amuse­ment. He claims con­tent­ment in his lim­i­ta­tions, hav­ing accept­ed the qui­et ordi­nar­i­ness of his life. Denis, lis­ten­ing close­ly, sens­es the truth in Scogan’s words but strug­gles to feel con­soled by them. Unlike Sco­gan, he still hopes that a well-cho­sen expe­ri­ence, or the right poet­ic line, might unlock some­thing with­in him. The fair, while friv­o­lous to oth­ers, feels like an oppor­tu­ni­ty for expression—a chance to con­nect with some­thing more mean­ing­ful.

This mix­ture of fes­tiv­i­ty and inward reflec­tion cap­tures the tone of the chap­ter. Beneath the col­or­ful plans for games and cos­tumes lies a deep­er com­men­tary on how peo­ple nego­ti­ate iden­ti­ty, pur­pose, and expec­ta­tion. Every­one pre­pares to play a role—some lit­er­al, oth­ers emotional—and the fair becomes more than an event; it becomes a stage. Denis’s strug­gle with writ­ing the ode is more than writer’s block. It’s a metaphor for the ten­sion between pub­lic oblig­a­tion and pri­vate uncer­tain­ty. Can one write about cel­e­bra­tion while feel­ing fun­da­men­tal­ly dis­con­nect­ed from it? The task forces him to con­front not just his cre­ative lim­its but his emo­tion­al ones.

The chap­ter clos­es with an air of antic­i­pa­tion. Laugh­ter still fills the din­ing room, and plans are being final­ized, yet Denis remains qui­et­ly apart. The oth­ers seem anchored in their roles, con­fi­dent or at least con­tent. He, how­ev­er, is adrift in doubt. The ode looms, not just as a duty, but as a test—one he isn’t sure he can pass. And as the fair approach­es, so too does the ques­tion that shad­ows Denis through­out: can he ever move from obser­va­tion to par­tic­i­pa­tion? In a world of col­or and noise, his chal­lenge is not to write about joy, but to believe in it.