ned his flattering intention. He shook
himself savagely in his chair.

"Don't--please don't say what you were going to say. If you knew how I
loathe my imitators. I shouldn't have sent for you if you had been one
of them."

His mind seemed to be diverted from his present victim by some
voluptuous and iniquitous reminiscence. Then he began again. "But you
and your _Saturnalia_--Ah!"

He leant forward suddenly as he gave out the interjection like a
growl.

"Do you know you're a very terrible young man? What do you mean by
setting my old cracked heart dancing to those detestable tunes? I wish
I'd never read the d----d things."

He threw himself back in his chair.

"No, no; you haven't learnt any of those tunes from me. My Muse wears
a straighter and a longer petticoat; and I flatter myself she has the
manners of an English gentlewoman."

Rickman blushed painfully this time. He had no reply to make to that.

"I didn't mean," Fielding went on, "to talk to you about your _Saturnalia_.
But _On Harcombe Hill_, and _The Song of Confession_--those
are great poems."

Rickman looked up, startled out of his self-possession by the
unexpected words and the sudden curious vibration in the voice that
uttered them. Yet he could hardly realize that Fielding was praising
him.

"They moved me," said Fielding, "as nothing moves me now, except the
Psalms of David. I have been a great poet, as poets go nowadays; but"
(he smiled radiantly) "the painful conviction is forced upon me that
you will be a greater--if you live. I wanted to tell you this,
because nobody else is likely to find it out until you're _dead_. You
may make up your mind to that, my friend."

"I had made up my mind to many things. But they don't matter--now."

Fielding ignored the compliment. "_Has_ any one found it out? Except
yourself?"

"Only one person."

"Man or woman?"

He thought of Maddox, that irresponsible person. "A man. And perhaps
he hardly counts."

The old poet gave him a keen glance from his all-knowing eyes.

"There _is_ one other person, who apparently doesn't count, either.
Well, I think that was the luncheon-bell."

On their way to the dining-room he remarked: "That's another reason
why I sent for you. Because I hear they've not been particularly kind
to you. Don't suppose I'm going to pity you for that."

"I don't pity myself, sir."

"No--no--you don't. That's what I like about you," he added, taking
his guest by the arm and ste