“I must kiss you too, Philip,” she said.

“All right,” he said, blushing.

He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly.  The train started, and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept disconsolately.  Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief.

“Well, did you see her safely off?” asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in.

“Yes, she seemed rather weepy.  She insisted on kissing me and Philip.”

“Oh, well, at her age it’s not dangerous.”  Mrs. Carey pointed to the sideboard.  “There’s a letter for you, Philip.  It came by the second post.”

It was from Hayward and ran as follows: 

My dear boy,

I answer your letter at once.  I ventured to read it to a great friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming.  You wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every line.  And because you love you write like a poet.  Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing:  I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of your emotion.  You must be happy!  I wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers.  I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne’er consent—­consented.  Roses and violets and honeysuckle!  Oh, my friend, I envy you.  It is so good to think that your first love should have been pure poetry.  Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day.  You will never again enjoy that careless rapture.  First love is best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours.  I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you buried your face in her long hair.  I am sure that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold.  I would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her. 
                             Yours always,
                                     G. Etheridge Hayward.

“What damned rot!” said Philip, when he finished the letter.

Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo and Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined.  Then, as he put the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the ideal.