To-day he had crossed Exmoor, black with peat and purple with heather, and was proposing to spend the night at Nether Stowey. He had chosen Nether Stowey because Coleridge had lived there. He had sent word to his mother that it was one of the points to which letters could be forwarded. When he had written his name in the hotel book, the proprietress looked up. “Oh, so you’re the gentleman!” “Why? Have you got such stacks of letters for me?” “No. A telegram.” He tore it open and read, “_However late, push on to-night to The Pilgrims? Inn, Glastonbury_.” The signature was “Madame Josephine.” He looked to see at what time it had been received. It had arrived at three o’clock; so it had been waiting for him five hours. “I’m sorry I shan’t need that room,” he said. “How far is it to Glastonbury?” “About twenty-three miles. I suppose you’ll stay to dinner, sir? It’s being served.” “I’m afraid not.” Without loss of time, he cranked up his engine, jumped into his car and started. “_However late, push on to-night to Glastonbury_.” Why on earth? What interest could Madame Josephine have in his going to Glastonbury, and why to-night so especially? He had planned to go there to-morrow--to make a dream-day of it, full of memories of King Arthur and reconstructions of chivalrous history and legend. He had intended reading _The Idyls of the King_ that evening to key himself up to the proper pitch of enthusiasm. It seemed entirely too modern and not quite decent, to go racing at the bidding of an unexplained telegram into “The Island Valley of Avilion, where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow.” As he hummed along through the green-gold country he gave himself up to the mood of enchantment. In the transforming light of the fading sunset it seemed certain that a bend in the road would bring to view champions of The Round Table riding together. He smiled and shook his head at himself; he hadn’t grown much older since those old days at Ware. It was this sight that he and Desire had expected--the sight of knights in clanking armor and ladies with flowing raiment, sauntering together in a magic world. It had seemed to them that the enraptured land which their hearts-imagined, must lie just a little further beyond the hills and hedges. To find it, it was only necessary to go on and on. He recalled how he had read to her those legends as they had lain side by side, hidden in tall meadow-grasses from Fanner Joseph. He remembered how they had quarreled when she had said, “I like Sir Launcelot best.” “But you mustn’t. King Arthur was the good one. If Sir Launcelot hadn’t done wrong, everything would have been happy always.” “Yes, but if everything had been happy always, there wouldn’t have been any story, Teddy. I know why you don’t like my loving Sir Launcelot: it’s because you’re a King Arthur yourself.” He laughed. How hurt he had felt at her accusation that he was a proper person!