"You did," said Paul, "but I say, what do you think Tressor said last night about my verse?" "Can't say," said Donaldson. Then Paul told him. His friend whistled. "Damn it all, Paul," he said--"by the way, let me call you 'Paul,' may I?--I should chuck all those preaching and praying stunts of yours now." "Why on earth----" began Paul, utterly surprised. "Oh well, do as you think best. But it'll spoil you for literature. Didn't Tressor tell you the other day that your essays were too like sermons? And if you get in with Manning and all that set, Hartley and his crowd won't be of any use." Paul got up slowly and walked to the fire. He stood still awhile, gazing into it. The other fidgeted. "Come on now, anyway," he said. "We shall be late for that lekker." "I shan't go this morning. I shall cut it." "Right-o. Good-bye. I'm off," retorted the other, and departed, a little huffed. Mrs. Roper came in to clear away. "Aren't you a-going to finish your breakfuss, sir?" she asked. "I've done, thanks," said Paul. "I don't want any more." "Off 'is feed," said Mrs. Roper outside to her "help." "'Ad too much at that there feast, I expect. 'Ere, you can 'ave them eggs." As for Paul, he mounted his bicycle and rode out into the country. A wintry sun lay on the bare woods and stubble fields, and it was all very lovely. Even the close-cropped hedges were beautiful. The fallen beech-leaves were a spread of old gold under the trees by Madingley. CHAPTER III CHRISTMAS CAROLS ... Doubt, which, like a ghost, In the brain's darkness haunted me, Was thus resolved: Him loved I most, But her I loved most sensibly. Lastly, my giddiest hope allow'd No selfish thought, or earthly smirch; And forth I went, in peace, and proud To take my passion into Church; Grateful and glad to think that all Such doubts would seem entirely vain To her whose nature's lighter fall Made no divorce of heart from brain. COVENTRY PATMORE: _The Angel in the House_. (1) Paul, walking home from Claxted Station down Edward Street and past Mr. Thornton's "Elite Photographic Studio," was puzzled. Some bewildering spell had fallen upon Claxted in a couple of months. The suburban station had a strange respectable air that sat ill on it, and whereas a station may smell of dirt or smoke, it should not smell of stale paint. Edward Street was horribly tidy, and gaped. The Town Hall and its Libraries, once majestic centres of learning and authority, had been cheapened. And the familiar road to his home appeared to have been newly washed and to have shrunk in the process.