Father Payne and Barthrop laughed. "I should like Gladwin to hear that!" said Barthrop. "Only it would grieve him still more if Duncan _had_ heard of him," said Father Payne; "there would be a commonness about that!" Then turning to me, he said, "Gladwin? Well, he's about the most critical man in England, I suppose. He does a little work--a very little: and I think he might have been a great man, if he hadn't become so fearfully dry. He began by despising everyone else, and ended by despising himself--and now it's almost a torture to him to make up his mind. 'There's something base about a _decision_,' he once said to me. But 'despising' isn't the right word. He doesn't despise--that would be coarse. He only feels the coarseness of things in general. He has got too fine an edge on his mind--everything blunts it!" "Do you remember Rose's song about him?" said Barthrop. "Yes, what was it?" said Father Payne. "The refrain," said Barthrop, "was "'Not too much of whatever is best, That is enough for me!'" Father Payne laughed. "Yes, I remember!" he said; "'Not too much' is a good stroke!" I happened to be with Father Payne when Gladwin arrived. He was a small, trim, compact man, about forty, unembarrassed and graceful, but with an air of dejection. He had a short pointed beard and moustache, and his hair was growing grey. He had fine thin hands, and he was dressed in old but well-fitting clothes. He had an atmosphere of great distinction about him. I had expected something incisive and clear-cut about him, but he was conspicuously gentle, and even deprecating in manner. He greeted Father Payne smilingly, and shook hands with me, with a courteous little bow. We strolled a little in the garden. Father Payne did most of the talking, but Gladwin's silence was sympathetic and impressive. He listened to us tolerantly, as a man might listen to the prattle of children. "What are you doing just now?" said Father Payne after a pause. "Oh, nothing worth mentioning," said Gladwin softly. "I work more slowly than ever, I believe. It can hardly be called work, indeed. In fact, I want to consult you about a few little bits--they can hardly be called anything so definite as 'pieces'--but I am in doubt about their arrangement. The placing of independent pieces is such a difficulty to me, you know! One must secure some sort of a progression!" "Ah, I shall enjoy that," said Father Payne. "But you won't take my advice, you know--you never do!" "Oh, don't say that," said Gladwin. "Of course one must be ultimately responsible. It can't be otherwise. But I always respect your judgment. You always help me to the materials, at all events, for a decision!" Father Payne laughed, and said, "Well, I shall be at your service any time!"