"He wrote that when he was young. Later on he doubted whether we had
better love one another, or whether the earth will confirm anything. He
died a most unhappy man."

He could not help saying, "Not knowing that the earth had confirmed
him."

"Has she? It is quite possible. We meet so seldom in these days, she and
I. Do you see much of the earth?"

"A little."

"Do you expect that she will confirm you?"

"It is quite possible."

"Beware of her, Rickie, I think."

"I think not."

"Beware of her, surely. Going back to her really is going back--throwing
away the artificiality which (though you young people won't confess it)
is the only good thing in life. Don't pretend you are simple. Once I
pretended. Don't pretend that you care for anything but for clever talk
such as this, and for books."

"The talk," said Leighton afterwards, "certainly was clever. But it
meant something, all the same." He heard no more, for his mistress told
him to retire.

"And my nephew, this being so, make up your quarrel with your wife." She
stretched out her hand to him with real feeling. "It is easier now than
it will be later. Poor lady, she has written to me foolishly and often,
but, on the whole, I side with her against you. She would grant you all
that you fought for--all the people, all the theories. I have it, in her
writing, that she will never interfere with your life again."

"She cannot help interfering," said Rickie, with his eyes on the black
windows. "She despises me. Besides, I do not love her."

"I know, my dear. Nor she you. I am not being sentimental. I say
once more, beware of the earth. We are conventional people, and
conventions--if you will but see it--are majestic in their way, and
will claim us in the end. We do not live for great passions or for great
memories, or for anything great."

He threw up his head. "We do."

"Now listen to me. I am serious and friendly tonight, as you must have
observed. I have asked you here partly to amuse myself--you belong to
my March Past--but also to give you good advice. There has been a
volcano--a phenomenon which I too once greatly admired. The eruption is
over. Let the conventions do their work now, and clear the rubbish away.
My age is fifty-nine, and I tell you solemnly that the important things
in life are little things, and that people are not important at all. Go
back to your wife."

He looked at her, and was filled with pity. He knew that he would never
be