"Yes, he came here once. It was in his last days, when he had finally discovered that the world had rejected him. But he never knew why he was rejected." "Why was he rejected?" "Because he could only sing of the past. He had no vision of the modern world. He despised it, and his contempt blinded him to its real significance. "I do not think that is quite just, father," said Elizabeth. "Ah! I forgot to say," said Vickars, with an admiring glance at his daughter, "that Elizabeth is a much better critic than I. She is a better critic because she is a kinder." "No, it's not that, father. My criticism, such as it is, is only feeling, and I felt that poor Lawson was just finding his way to the right method when he died. Don't you remember those lines on London in his last sonnet?-- O Calvaries of the poor, dim hills of pain, Whose utmost anguish is not nail or thorn, The beaten blood-smeared brow, the soft flesh torn, But this, that ye are crucified in vain. The man who wrote those lines surely saw the modern world, and realised its significance." She recited the lines slowly, in a low fluty voice which would have imparted dignity and music to much worse lines. Arthur listened entranced. Surely there was magic in this summer's night, a magic of the soul as well as of the flesh. His hand had touched hers, but now her mind revealed itself, and thrilled his with a subtler contact. In one swift glimpse he understood her exquisite sensitiveness, her pitifulness and tenderness, her strength and goodness; it was as though the Madonna's halo rested for an instant on that fair brow, and awed him into worship. He drew a long breath, and now, when his eyes sought hers, her gaze was not averted. She accepted the challenge of his eyes with complete sincerity, and with a frankness which was the last effect of complete innocence and modesty. The voice of Vickars broke the spell. "Yes, you are right," he said; "you usually are." And then, turning to Arthur with a whimsical smile, "Do you know Elizabeth writes my books for me?" "Typewrites, he means. That is all, I assure you," she said. "And corrects my blunders, which are many." "Only the spelling. Father never could spell, and when he is in difficulties he makes a hieroglyphic with his pen, and leaves me to decipher it."