“You know we were talking one night and were interrupted--you're in danger of letting the things you imagine beat the things you know. Stick to the thing you can grasp, touch--I know the dangers of the others--I told you that once in Cornwall, I--the most unlikely person in the world--was caught up by it. I've never laughed at morbidity, or nerves, or insanity since. There's such a jolly thin wall between the sanest, most level-headed beef-eating Squire in the country and the maddest poet in Bedlam. _I_ know--I've been both in the same day. It's better to be both, I believe, if you can keep one under the other, but you _must_ keep it under--” Maradick talked on. He saw that the boy's nerves were jumping, that he was holding himself in with the greatest difficulty. Peter said: “You don't know, Maradick. I've had to fight all my life--my father, grandfather, all of them have given in at last--and now this child ... perhaps I shall see it growing, see him gradually learning to hate me, see myself hating him ... at last, my God, see him go under--drink, deviltry--I've fought it--I'm always fighting it--but to-night--” “Good heavens, man--you're not going to tell me that your father, your grandfather--the rest of them--are stronger than you. What about your soul, your own blessed soul that can't be touched by any living thing or dead thing either if you stick to it? Why, every man's got power enough in himself to ride heaven and earth and all eternity if he only believed he'd got it! Ride your scruples, man--ride 'em, drive 'em--send 'em scuttling. Believe in yourself and stick to it--Courage!...” Maradick pulled himself in. They were driving now, down the King's Road. The people were pouring in a thick, buzzing crowd, out of the Chelsea Palace. Middle-aged stockbrokers in hansom cabs--talking like the third act of a problem play!--but Maradick had done his work. As they drove round the corner, past the mad lady's painted house, he saw that Peter was calmer. He had regained his self-control. The little house where Peter lived was very still--the trees in the orchard were stiff and dark beneath the stars. Peter spoke in a whisper--“Good-night, Maradick, you've done me a lot of good--I shan't forget it.” “Good luck to you,” Maradick whispered back. Peter stole into the house. The little drawing-room looked very cosy; the fire was burning, the lamp lighted, the thick curtains drawn. Maria Theresa smiled, with all her finery, from the wall. Peter sat down in front of the fire. Maradick was right. One must have one's hand on the bridle--the Rider on the Lion again. It's better that the beast under you should be a Lion rather than a Donkey, but let it once fling you off its back and you're done for. And Maradick had said these things! Maradick whom once Peter had considered the dullest of his acquaintances. Well, one never knew about people--most of the Stay-at-homes were Explorers and vice versa, if one only understood them.