"No, I shall write, because that's my _métier_--the grass that suits me best. But there's this difference. I used to think, when I had written a book, that I had done all that was required of me. Now I see I must live my books. There's far too much writing in the world, and far too much preaching; there's never been enough living." "I'm sure you've discussed that point long enough," said Mrs. Bundy. "Come and look at my new conservatory. Do you know I've turned orchid-grower? I really prefer roses; but Bundy wants orchids, just because they're expensive. It's a terrible thing to be rich, because you've got to have what other people want, instead of what you want." They went into the conservatory, and presently, under the skilful management of Mrs. Bundy, Arthur found himself alone with Elizabeth. They sat there a long time, hand in hand, in sympathetic silence. For these two had reached that most perfect union of spirit, which is quite beyond the common mediations of language. Love for them had found its rarest form, a complete repose. From the first they had rested on each other, and, by a kind of spiritual clairvoyance, had read the deepest secrets of each other's thought. They had no need to reiterate the lover's hungry question, "Do you love me?" Such a question implies dubiety, and they had no doubts. Elizabeth's hand, laid in his, said everything; her lips, yielded willingly to his, would have been profaned by speech. And in those long sacramental silences there was something holy--an ardour of the spirit, for which language had no symbols. They returned at last into the library, where they found Vickars and Bundy engaged in conversation. "You have quite made your mind up to live with your father?" asked Bundy. "Yes. I could not leave him alone." "Very well, then. No doubt you're right. Well, listen. I once asked you to be secretary to the Dredging Company in New York, and you refused. I want you now to act as my private secretary for a few hours every day. In that way you will be earning something, and you can go on living with your father as long as you think fit." "And I cheerfully accept," said Arthur. "Then we'll take that as settled. And if you can persuade your father to come back to the life which I think he is better fitted for, why do. He may count on me." "I don't think he will ever do that. But I am sure he will be glad to know you thought of it." "Poor fellow," said Bundy, his eyes full of tears. "The world has used him hardly. It somehow doesn't seem fair that I should be here and he there." And then, with a trembling voice, came the old sentiment. "But it's great, all the same, the way he takes things. Your father's a great man." "I think so too," said Arthur. "He's the greatest man I ever knew, and you are the best." XXIII THE LAST HOME