“I had made up my mind to many things.  But they don’t matter—­now.”

Fielding ignored the compliment. “Has any one found it out?  Except yourself?”

“Only one person.”

“Man or woman?”

He thought of Maddox, that irresponsible person.  “A man.  And perhaps he hardly counts.”

The old poet gave him a keen glance from his all-knowing eyes.

“There is one other person, who apparently doesn’t count, either.  Well, I think that was the luncheon-bell.”

On their way to the dining-room he remarked:  “That’s another reason why I sent for you.  Because I hear they’ve not been particularly kind to you.  Don’t suppose I’m going to pity you for that.”

“I don’t pity myself, sir.”

“No—­no—­you don’t.  That’s what I like about you,” he added, taking his guest by the arm and steering 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.