We walked on, and I asked no more questions.  “There’s a bit of colour,” said Father Payne, pointing to a bare wood, all carpeted with green blades.  “That’s pure emerald, like the seventh foundation of the city.  Now, if I ask you, who are a bit of a poet, what those leaves are, what do you say?  You say hyacinth or daffodil, or perhaps lily-of-the-valley.  But what does the simple botanist—­that’s me—­say?  Garlic, my boy, and nothing else! and you had better not walk musing there, or you will come in smelling of spring onions, like a greengrocer’s shop.  So much for poetry!  It’s the loveliest green in creation, and it has a pretty flower too—­but it’s never once mentioned in English poetry, so far as I know.  And yet Keats had the face to say that Beauty was Truth and Truth Beauty!  That’s the way we play the game.”

We rambled on, and passed a pleasant old stone-built cottage in the wood, with a tiny garden.  “It’s a curious thing,” said Father Payne, “but in the spring I always want to live in all the houses I see.  It’s the nesting instinct, no doubt.  I think I could be very happy here, for instance—­much happier than in my absurd big house, with all you fellows about.  Why did I ever start it?  I ought to have had more sense.  I want a cottage like this, and a little garden to work in, and a few books.  I would live on bread and cold bacon and cheese and cabbages, with a hive of my own honey.  I should get wise and silent, and not run on like this.”

A dog came out of the cottage garden, and followed us a little way.  “Do we belong to your party, sir, or do you belong to ours?” said Father Payne.  The dog put his head on one side, and wagged his tail.  “It appears I have the pleasure of your acquaintance!” said Father Payne to him.  “Very well, you can set us on our way if you like!” The dog gave a short shrill bark, and trotted along with us.  When we got to the end of the lane, where it turned into the high road, Father Payne said to the dog, “Now, sir, I expect that’s all the time you can spare this morning?  You must go back and guard the house, and be a faithful dog.  Duty first!” The dog looked mournfully at us, and wagged his tail, but did not attempt to come farther.  He watched us for a little longer, but as we did not invite him to come on, he presently turned round and trotted off home.  “Now, that’s the sort of case where I feel sentimental,” said Father Payne.  “It’s the sham sort of pathos.  I hate to see anyone disappointed.  A person offering flowers in the street for sale, and people not buying them—­the men in London showing off little toys by the pavement, which nobody wants—­I can’t bear that.  It makes me feel absurdly wretched to see anyone hoping to please, and not pleasing.  And if the people who do it look old and frail and unhappy, I’m capable of buying the whole stock.  The great uncomforted!  It’s silly, of course, and there is nothing in the world so silly as useless emotion!  It is so easy to overflow with cheap benevolence, but the first step towards the joyful wisdom is to be afraid of the emotion that costs you nothing:  but we won’t be metaphysical to-day!”