was a modern poet, which in the best of circumstances is to be
marked for suffering. And to Mr. Rickman circumstances had not been
exactly kind.

A modern poet, was he? One whom the gods torment with inspired and
hopeless passion; a lover of his own "fugitive and yet eternal bride,"
the Helen of Homer, of AEschylus and Euripides, the Helen of Marlowe
and Goethe, the Helen of them all. And for Mr. Rickman, unhappy Mr.
Rickman, perdition lurked darkly in her very name. What, oh what must
it feel like, to be capable of eliding the aitch in "Helen" and yet
divinely and deliriously in love with her? Here Lucia was wrong, for
Mr. Rickman was entirely happy with the aitch in Helen.

She was so sorry for him. But she did not see at the moment what she
could do for him besides being sorry. And yet, if he were Horace's
friend, she must do more. She was aware that she had been sorry for
him chiefly because he was not a gentleman. Well, she had seen men
before who were not gentlemen and she had been very far from feeling
any sort of sorrow for them. But she had never in all her life seen
anything like this inspired young Cockney, with his musical voice and
afflicting accent, a person whose emotions declared themselves
publicly and painfully, whose thoughts came and went as transparently
as the blood in his cheeks, who yet contrived somehow to remain in the
last resort impenetrable.

She could not ignore him. Apart from Horace he had established his
claim; and if he _was_ Horace's friend he had another and a stronger
title to consideration. But was he? She had really no proof.

She wondered whether Mr. Rickman had missed his sonnet. She laid it
almost tenderly in a conspicuous place on his table, and put a bronze
head of Pallas Athene on it to keep it down. Then she wondered again
whether he enjoyed the bookshop, whether he enjoyed making catalogues
_raisonnes_, whether he enjoyed himself generally, and she hoped that
at any rate he would enjoy his Easter Sunday. Poor little man.

Lucia was so happy herself that she wanted Mr. Rickman to be happy
too.

CHAPTER XXI

Mr. Rickman was anything but happy as he set out for his walk that
glorious April morning.

Outside the gate of Court House he stood and looked about him,
uncertain of the way he would go. All ways were open to him, and
finally, avoiding the high road, he climbed up a steep and stony lane
to the great eastern rampart which is Harcombe Hill. Beneath him l