Then there was the inevitable vicar, with a wife who piqued herself on her smart bonnets; a curate, who preached Socialism, wore knickerbockers, and belonged to the Fabian Society; a few unattached elderly ladies who had long outlived the reproach of their virginity; and just two or three other families with nothing particular to distinguish them one way or another.  It may readily be inferred, therefore, that Austin had not many associates.  There was really no one in the place who interested him in the very least, and the consequence was that he was generally regarded as unsociable.  And so he was—­very unsociable.  The companionship of his books, his bicycle, his flowers and his thoughts was far more precious to him than that of the silly people who bothered him to join in their vapid diversions and unseasonable talk, and he rightly acted upon his preference.  His own resources were of such a nature that he never felt alone; and having but few comrades in the flesh, he wisely courted the society of those whom, though long since dead, he held in far higher esteem than all the elderly ladies and curates and MacTavishes who ever lived.  His appetite in literature was keen, but fastidious.  He devoured all the books he could procure about the Renaissance of art in Italy.  The works of Mr Walter Pater were as a treasure-house of suggestion to him, and did much to form and guide his gradually developing mentality.  He read Plato, being even more fascinated by the exquisite technique of the dialectic than by the ethical value of the teaching.  And there was one small, slim book that he always carried about with him, and kept for special reading in the fields and woods.  This was Virgil’s Eclogues, the sylvan atmosphere of which penetrated the very depths of his being, and created in him a moral or spiritual atmosphere which was its counterpart.  He seemed to live amid gracious pastoral scenes, where beautiful youths and maidens passed a perpetual springtime in a land of dewy lawns, and shady groves, and pools, and rippling streams.  Daphnis and Mopsus, Corydon, Alexis, and Amyntas, were all to him real personages, who peopled his solitude, inspired his poetic fancy, and fostered in his imagination the elements of an ideal life where the beauty and purity and freshness of untainted Nature reigned supreme.  The accident of his lameness, by incapacitating him for violent exercise out of doors, ministered to the development of this spiritual tendency, and threw him back upon the allurements of a refined idealism.  Daphnis became to him the embodiment, the concrete image, of eternal youthhood, of adolescence in the abstract, the attribute of an idealised humanity.  To lead the pure Daphnis life of simplicity, stainlessness, communion with beautiful souls, was to lead the highest life.  To find one’s bliss in sunshine, flowers, and the winds of heaven—­in both the physical and moral spheres—­was to find the highest bliss.  Why should not he, Austin Trevor, cripple as he was, so live the Daphnis life as to be himself a Daphnis?