"Poor old buffer," said Dr. Thorpe. "Of course, he misses her dreadfully."

"I should think he would; and she misses him, too. I would be glad to see them good friends again if--if I needn't be put in a false position.

He is--disgustingly rich, you know." John hesitated. He looked at the floor, and traced the pattern of the carpet with his stick. "He called me a sneak--and ordered me out of the house. But I can afford to forgive that. It was horribly sudden for the poor old chap--and--all that."

Dr. Thorpe's eyes were moist.

"I meant to look into your spiritual state, later," he said. "But I see it isn't necessary."

When the four of them met, in the hall, it was understood that John and Phyllis would resume their work at Saint Ruth's.

"Nothing like it to keep your sense of relative values normal," said Dr.

Thorpe to John.

Mrs. Thorpe stood with her arm around Phyllis.

"Saint Ruth's neighbors will be glad to see you again, dear girl. Did I tell you what old Mrs. Lester said to me? You remember her poor hands, all twisted with rheumatism and yet what beautiful needlework she does.

She said, 'I should like to make her a pretty handkerchief, for a wedding gift. Do you think she would care for it?'"

Mrs. Thorpe had been looking through the open doorway.

"Here comes trouble, Donald," she said, in a low voice.

John and Phyllis glanced back as they walked out.

Dr. Thorpe was shaking hands, heartily, with a big, sodden fellow, in shabby clothes, his virile face marred by excesses; the frail little woman with him looked up at him with a world of anxious love in her eyes; and then Mrs. Thorpe led her away, talking cheerily.

All the way home John discoursed on Art. Phyllis drank it in. She thought him a wonderful being.

"The trouble with these literary chaps is that they revolve in a circle," he declared, posing securely on his new pedestal. "They have their writing rooms, all strewn with carefully disarranged paraphernalia; and they have their clubs, where they meet only each other and praise each other's work, and d.a.m.n the work of the absent ones: and they go prowling about looking for a bohemia that never existed, and can never exist for them; for bohemia is simply youth and poverty and high aspirations, combined, and can't be found by search. If these literary chaps are exceptionally fortunate, they are invited to great houses, where they dine with stupid, overfed people who pretend they have read their books, though they haven't, unless they are unfit to read. And so they go on wearily turning that treadmill--and wonder why their work has lost freshness, and convince themselves it has gained style. I am not a literary chap, and I don't wish to be one. I am a poet. Poetry is my profession. And the only way I can succeed in it, the only way it is worth succeeding in, is to relate it to life, real life, the big, elemental struggle for existence that is going on, here in London, and everywhere; to wed Art to Reality, lest the jade saunter the streets, a light o' love, seeking to sell her soul."

As they walked past the bookshop, and through the little square, John said:--

"I should like to live in London eight months of the year, and give most of my time to Saint Ruth's. And the rest of the year I should like to live in a village, like Rosemary, Suss.e.x, where I lived as a boy; on the outskirts of a little village, near the green country; and do my writing there, under the blue sky--with G.o.d looking over my shoulder, to see the work well done."

XI

There was a motor-car in front of the house; its blinding lights illuminated the windows at the other end of the square.

Mrs. Farquharson met them at the door.

"He's upstairs in your room. Sir Peter Oglebay--your uncle," she said, in an excited whisper. "Three times he has called this day; once at eleven, once at two; and now again at six. 'Sit down and wait,' I says to him, the last time; 'they will surely be home for dinner; never have they missed since first they came,' says I; and sit down he did--and there he sits; and doesn't he look n.o.ble, sitting there! Genevieve's that nervous she drops everything she touches."

John and Phyllis exchanged looks. He smiled as easily as he could.

"Would you like it if I walked about a bit--or dropped in on old Rowlandson, while you talk with your uncle?" he asked.

"I want you with me, John. I need you," said Phyllis.

"Together's the word," he replied, and they mounted the stairs.

So far as Phyllis was concerned, it was all over in a moment.

Sir Peter rose when they entered. She gave one look at his sad, white face, and drawn mouth.

"Oh, Uncle Peter!" she cried; and was in his arms.

He tried to say the words he had humbly learned.

"I have your pardon to ask, my dear--"

That was as far as he got. She put both hands over his mouth; and withdrew them only to kiss him and whispered--

"It is I who should ask your pardon, Uncle Peter. I have been very, very naughty, And I am very, very sorry."

Now, when Sir Peter heard that childish formula, he seemed to hold in his arms the little girl who had repeated it, many times, under the instructions of Mrs. Burbage. The years slipped away. He held her close; the wounds were healed.

When two men have a disagreeable interview before them, each maneuvers for position. The one who gets the fireplace back of him has an advantage. It isn't impregnable, but the other fellow must force the fighting. The place may be carried by storm; but it takes a spirited action. John executed a flank movement, while his ally engaged the enemy. He got the fireplace; it was a small one, but it was his own.

One wishes John well out of this scene; our hopes are high for him; but he is a queer chap; you never know how to take him, nor what he will say, or do. We can only wish him well; and observe that he carries his chin high.

Sir Peter released Phyllis, and then turned to John.

"I wish to apologize to you, Landless," said Sir Peter, and crossed the room; he offered his hand; John took it and they stood for a moment so, neither speaking.

"I hope you can forgive what I said," Sir Peter concluded.

"I did that before we left your house--that morning," said John. "Don't say anything more about it, sir, please. I should have been as angry as you were--under the same circ.u.mstances. I am sure there is need of forbearance on both sides."

Sir Peter dropped John's hand, and strode to the window. In a moment he faced about again.

"I can't have it that way," said he. "It was unspeakable----"

John stopped him.

"I beg you to say no more, sir. I a.s.sure you there is not an unkind thought in my heart. Let the dead past bury its dead." John hesitated; then stammered out--"Fine weather we are having, sir."

Sir Peter offered his hand again; their grasp was cordial. Each looked straight into the other's eyes.

"Oh, dear," said Phyllis, pushing the big armchair nearer the fire.

"Isn't everything lovely!"

She coaxed her uncle into the chair with a pretty gesture, and seated herself in a smaller one, with a happy little sigh.

There was a tap at the door.