But this brusque separation from his particular divinity was disconcerting.  How to see her again?  He must go up to Oxford in the morning, he wrote her that night, but if she could possibly let him call during the week he would manage to run down again.

“Oh, my dear, dreaming poet,” she wrote to Oxford, “how could you possibly send me a letter to be laid on the breakfast-table beside The Times!  With a poem in it, too.  Fortunately my husband was in a hurry to get down to the City, and he neglected to read my correspondence. (’The unchivalrous blackguard,’ John commented.  ’But what can be expected of a woman beater?’) Never, never write to me again at the house.  A letter, care of Mrs. Best, 8A Foley Street, W.C., will always find me.  She is my maid’s mother.  And you must not come here either, my dear handsome head-in-the-clouds, except to my ‘At Homes,’ and then only at judicious intervals.  I shall be walking round the pond in Kensington Gardens at four next Wednesday, unless Mrs. Best brings me a letter to the contrary.  And now thank you for your delicious poem; I do not recognise my humble self in the dainty lines, but I shall always be proud to think I inspired them.  Will it be in the new volume?  I have never been in print before; it will be a novel sensation.  I cannot pay you song for song, only feeling for feeling.  Oh, John Lefolle, why did we not meet when I had still my girlish dreams?  Now, I have grown to distrust all men—­to fear the brute beneath the cavalier....”

Mrs. Best did bring her a letter, but it was not to cancel the appointment, only to say he was not surprised at her horror of the male sex, but that she must beware of false generalisations.  Life was still a wonderful and beautiful thing—­vide poem enclosed.  He was counting the minutes till Wednesday afternoon.  It was surely a popular mistake that only sixty went to the hour.

This chronometrical reflection recurred to him even more poignantly in the hour that he circumambulated the pond in Kensington Gardens.  Had she forgotten—­had her husband locked her up?  What could have happened?  It seemed six hundred minutes, ere, at ten past five she came tripping daintily towards him.  His brain had been reduced to insanely devising problems for his pupils—­if a man walks two strides of one and a half feet a second round a lake fifty acres in area, in how many turns will he overtake a lady who walks half as fast and isn’t there?—­but the moment her pink parasol loomed on the horizon, all his long misery vanished in an ineffable peace and uplifting.  He hurried, bare-headed, to clasp her little gloved hand.  He had forgotten her unpunctuality, nor did she remind him of it.

“How sweet of you to come all that way,” was all she said, and it was a sufficient reward for the hours in the train and the six hundred minutes among the nursemaids and perambulators.  The elms were in their glory, the birds were singing briskly, the water sparkled, the sunlit sward stretched fresh and green—­it was the loveliest, coolest moment of the afternoon.  John instinctively turned down a leafy avenue.  Nature and Love!  What more could poet ask?