o a seat overlooking the lake where they sat for
awhile in silence, and Rickman found his thoughts roaming from his
god.

Presently Fielding rose and turned back to the house. Rickman felt
that the slow footsteps were measuring now the moments that he had to
be with him. He was glad that they were slow.

Fielding stopped at his house-door, and stood for a second gazing
earnestly at the young man.

"When you write anything," he said, "you may always send it to me. But
no more--please--no more _Saturnalia_."

"There won't be any more _Saturnalia_."

"Good. I do not ask you to come again to see me."

Rickman struggled for an answer, but could not think of anything
better than, "It's enough for me to have seen you once," which was not
at all what he had meant to say.

Fielding smiled faintly; his humour pleased, Rickman fancied, with the
ambiguity of his shy speech.

"I'm afraid I've tired you, sir," he said impulsively.

"You have not tired me. I tire myself. But here is Miss Gurney; she
will look after you and give you tea."

"Geniality," he continued, "is not my strong point, as you may have
perceived. And any unnatural effort of the kind fatigues me. My own
fault."

"You have been very generous to me."

"Generous? There can't be any generosity between equals. Only a simple
act of justice. It is you who have been good to me."

"I? To you?"

"Yes. You have satisfied my curiosity. I own that sometimes I have
wanted to know what sort of voice will be singing after I am dead. And
now I _do_ know. Good-bye, and thank you."

He pressed his hand, turned abruptly and shuffled into the house. He
was noticeably the worse for his walk, and Rickman felt that he had to
answer for it to Miss Gurney.

"I'm afraid I've tired him. I hope I haven't done him harm."

Miss Gurney glanced sharply at him, turned, and disappeared through
the study window. Her manner implied that if he had harmed Fielding
she would make him feel it.

She came back still unsmiling. "No. You have not tired him."

"Then," said he as he followed her into the drawing-room, "I am
forgiven?"

"Yes. But I did not say you had not done him harm."

The lady paused in her amenities to pour out his tea.

"Miss Gurney," he said as he took the cup from her, "can you tell me
the name of the friend who sent my book to you?"

"No, I'm afraid I cannot."

"I see. After all, I am not forgiven?"

"I am not at all sure that you ought to be."

"I hea