I was with him for the greater part of his weekend holiday; hung, perforce, about him whenever he had any leisure.  I suppose he found me tiresome—­but one has to do these things.  He talked, and I talked; heavens, how we talked!  He was almost always deferential, I almost always dogmatic; perhaps because the conversation kept on my own ground.  Politics we never touched.  I seemed to feel that if I broached them, I should be checked—­politely, but very definitely.  Perhaps he actually contrived to convey as much to me; perhaps I evolved the idea that if I were to say: 

“What do you think about the ‘Greenland System’”—­he would answer: 

“I try not to think about it,” or whatever gently closuring phrase his mind conceived.  But I never did so; there were so many other topics.

He was then writing his Life of Cromwell and his mind was very full of his subject.  Once he opened his heart, after delicately sounding me for signs of boredom.  It happened, by the merest chance—­one of those blind chances that inevitably lead in the future—­that I, too, was obsessed at that moment by the Lord Oliver.  A great many years before, when I was a yearling of tremendous plans, I had set about one of those glorious novels that one plans—­a splendid thing with Old Noll as the hero or the heavy father.  I had haunted the bookstalls in search of local colour and had wonderfully well invested my half-crowns.  Thus a company of seventeenth century tracts, dog-eared, coverless, but very glorious under their dust, accompany me through life.  One parts last with those relics of a golden age, and during my late convalescence I had reread many of them, the arbitrary half-remembered phrases suggesting all sorts of scenes—­lamplight in squalid streets, trays full of weather-beaten books.  So, even then, my mind was full of Mercurius Rusticus.  Mr. Churchill on Cromwell amused me immensely and even excited me.  It was life, this attending at a self-revelation of an impossible temperament.  It did me good, as he had said of my pseudo-sister.  It was fantastic—­as fantastic as herself—­and it came out more in his conversation than in the book itself.  I had something to do with that, of course.  But imagine the treatment accorded to Cromwell by this delicate, negative, obstinately judicial personality.  It was the sort of thing one wants to get into a novel.  It was a lesson to me—­in temperament, in point of view; I went with his mood, tried even to outdo him, in the hope of spurring him to outdo himself.  I only mention it because I did it so well that it led to extraordinary consequences.

We were walking up and down his lawn, in the twilight, after his Sunday supper.  The pale light shone along the gleaming laurels and dwelt upon the soft clouds of orchard blossoms that shimmered above them.  It dwelt, too, upon the silver streaks in his dark hair and made his face seem more pallid, and more old.  It affected me like some intense piece of irony.  It was like hearing a dying man talk of the year after next.  I had the sense of the unreality of things strong upon me.  Why should nightingale upon nightingale pour out volley upon volley of song for the delight of a politician whose heart was not in his task of keeping back the waters of the deluge, but who grew animated at the idea of damning one of the titans who had let loose the deluge?