“It is all my fault,” said Vincent, “but I am not going to tell you whom I meant, and Barthrop must not.  But I will tell you how it was.  I was with this man, who is an old acquaintance of mine.  I used to know him when I was living in London.  I met him the other day, and he asked me to luncheon.  He was pleasant enough, but after lunch he said to me that he was going to take the privilege of an old friend, and give me some advice.  He began by paying me compliments; he said that he had thought a year ago that I was really going to do something in literature.  ’You had made a little place for yourself,’ he said; ’you had got your foot on the ladder.  You knew the right people.  You had a real chance of success.  Then, in the middle of it all, you go and bury yourself in the country with an old’—­no, I can’t say it.”

“Don’t mind me!” said Father Payne.

“Very well,” said Vincent, “if you will hear it—­’with an old humbug, and a set of asses.  You sit in each others’ pockets, you praise each others’ stuff, you lead what you call the simple life.  Where will you all be five years hence?’ I told him that I didn’t know, and I didn’t care.  Then he lost his temper, and, what was worse, he thought he was keeping it.  ‘Very well,’ he said.  ’Now I will tell you what you ought to be doing.  You ought to have buckled to your work, pushed yourself quietly in all directions, never have written anything, or made a friend, or accepted an invitation, without saying, “Will this add to my consequence?” We must all nurse our reputations in this world.  They don’t come of themselves—­they have to be made!’ Well, I thought this all very sickening, and I said I didn’t care a d—­n about my reputation.  I said I had a chance of living with people whom I liked, and of working at things I cared about, and I thought his theories simply disgusting and vulgar.  He showed his teeth at that, and said that he had spoken as a true friend, and that it had been a painful task; and then I said I was much obliged to him, and came away.  That’s the story!”

“That’s all right,” said Father Payne, “and I am much obliged to you for the sidelight on my character.  But there is something in what he said, you know.  You are rather unpractical!  I shall send you back for a bit to London, I think!”

“Why on earth do you say that?” said Vincent, looking a little crestfallen.

“Because you mind it too much, my boy,” said Father Payne.  “You must not get soft.  That’s the danger of this life!  It’s all very well for me; I’m tough, and I’m moderately rich.  But you would not have cared so much if you had not thought there was something in what he said.  It was very low, no doubt, and I give you leave to hate him; though, if you are going to lead the detached life, you must be detached.  But now I have caught you up—­and we will go back a little.  The mistake you made, Vincent, if I may say so, was to be angry.  You may hate people, but you must not show that you hate them.  That is the practical side of the principle.  The moment you begin to squabble, and to say wounding things, and to try to hurt the person you hate, you are simply putting yourself on his level.  And you must not be shocked or pained either.  That is worse still, because it makes you superior, without making you engaging.”