ering him to his place.

At luncheon Miss Gurney took a prominent part in the conversation,
which Rickman for her sake endeavoured to divert from the enthralling
subject of himself. But his host (perceiving with evident amusement
his modest intention) brought it up again.

"Don't imagine, for a moment," said he, "that Miss Gurney admires you.
She hates young poets."

Miss Gurney smiled; but as Rickman saw, more in assent than polite
denial. Throughout the meal she had the air of merely tolerating his
presence there because it humoured the great man's eccentricity. From
time to time she looked at him with an interest in which he detected a
certain fear. The fear, he gathered, was lest his coming should
disturb, or in any way do harm to the object of her flagrant
adoration.

After she had left the table Fielding reproached him for mixing water
with his wine.

"In one way," said he, "you're a disappointment. I should have
preferred to see you drink your wine like a man."

"Unfortunately," said Rickman, "it's not so easy to drink it like a
man, if you've ever drunk it like a beast."

"Ah-h. You're an even more remarkable person than I thought you were,"
said the poet, rising abruptly from the table.

He proposed that they should take a walk in the garden, or rather on
the moor; for the heather ran crimson to the poet's doors, and the
young pines stood sentinel at his windows.

They walked slowly towards the lake. On their way there Fielding
stopped and drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the pure, sweet
air.

"Ah! that's better." He looked round him. "After all, we're right,
Rickman. It's the poets that shall judge the world; and if _we_ say
it's beautiful, it _is_ beautiful. _And_ good."

Happy Fielding, thought Rickman. Fielding had never suffered as he had
suffered; _his_ dream had never been divorced from reality. It seemed
fitting to the younger poet that his god should inhabit these pure and
lofty spaces, should walk thus on golden roads through a land of
crimson, in an atmosphere of crystal calm. He would have liked to talk
to Fielding of Fielding; but his awe restrained him.

Fielding's mind did not wander long from his companion. "Let me see,"
said he, "do you follow any trade or profession?" He added with a
smile, "besides your own?"

"I'm a journalist." Rickman mentioned his connection with _The
Museion_ and _The Planet_.

"Ah, I knew there was an unlucky star somewhere. Well, at any rat