He led the way to 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 heard what he said to you,” she went on almost fiercely.  “That’s why I hate young poets.  He says there is only you to hate.”

“So, of course, you hate me?”