We had arranged that each of our houses was to be open to him, and that in each a bed should be prepared, so that, as the mood took him, he might sleep where he thought best.

But the meeting, at the station, was a matter of considerable trepidation to us.

I strolled down the hill to the poet's house.

"Good morning," I said, "I--I am rather keen on running up to town, to-morrow, to see those pictures, you know."

The poet smiled.

"I did not know you were a patron of art," he observed. "I am gratified at this development."

"Ah--could you meet Tommy at 2.15?"

The poet's face fell.

"I--I am very busy," he said, deprecatingly.

"'Lucien and Angelica' ought to be concluded by to-morrow evening."

We were silent, both looking into the trembling haze, up the valley.

"The doctor," suggested the poet.

"I will try."

But the doctor was also very much engaged.

"Two cases up at Bonnor, in the downs," he explained.

I called on the vicar.

"I--I want to go up to town to see that china exhibit," I observed.

He looked interested.

"I didn't know you were a connoisseur," he remarked.

"Not at all, not at all--the merest tyro."

"I am glad. You will find the show well worth your attention."

I bent my head to the vicar's roses.

"These Richardsons are very lovely," I said.

The vicar smiled.

"I think they have repaid a little trouble," he said modestly.

"Ah--could you possibly meet the 2.15 to-morrow?"

"You are expecting a parcel?"

"No--not exactly. Tommy, you know."

The vicar took a turn on the lawn. Then he came to a standstill in front of me.

"I had planned a visit to Becklington," he said.

I bowed.

"I am sorry," said I, and turned to go.

At the gate he touched my shoulder.

"Mathews!"

I paused.

"I am a coward, Mathews--but I will go."

We looked into each other's eyes, and I repented.

"No, old friend. I ought to go and I will go. By Jove, I will."

"So be it," said the vicar.

I had played with my luncheon, to the concern of my man, who regarded me anxiously.

"Are you not well, sir?" he asked.

"Quite well," I replied, icily, with a remark about bad cooking, and careless service, and strode towards the station.

I paced the platform moodily twenty minutes before the advertised arrival of the train.

I was very early, but somebody, apparently, was before me.

I caught a glimpse of a strangely characteristic hat in the corner of the little waiting-room.

Its shapelessness was familiar.

I looked in, and the poet seemed a little confused.

"Lucien and Angel--?" I began, enquiringly.

He waved his hand, with some superiority.

"Inspiration cannot be commanded," he observed. "They shall wait until Sat.u.r.day."