"You know your own affairs of course. But don't forget that you are young and practically ignorant of life, and that you have scarcely any money of your own. As far as I can see, your career practically depends on the favour of Mr. Worters. You have laughed at him. He does not like being laughed at. It seems to me that your course is obvious." "Apology?" "Complete." "And if I don't?" "Departure." He sat down on the stone steps and rested his head on his knees. On the lawn below us was Miss Beaumont, draggling about with some croquet balls. Her lover was out in the meadow, superintending the course of the asphalt path. For the path is to be made, and so is the bridge, and the fence is to be built round Other Kingdom after all. In time Miss Beaumont saw how unreasonable were her objections. Of her own accord, one evening in the drawing-room, she gave her Harcourt permission to do what he liked. "That wood looks nearer," said Ford. "The inside fences have gone: that brings it nearer. But my dear boy--you must settle what you're going to do." "How much has he read?" "Naturally he only opened the book. From what you showed me of it, one glance would be enough." "Did he open at the poems?" "Poems?" "Did he speak of the poems?" "No. Were they about him?" "They were not about him." "Then it wouldn't matter if he saw them." "It is sometimes a compliment to be mentioned," said Ford, looking up at me. The remark had a stinging fragrance about it--such a fragrance as clings to the mouth after admirable wine. It did not taste like the remark of a boy. I was sorry that my pupil was likely to wreck his career; and I told him again that he had better apologize. "I won't speak of Mr. Worters' claim for an apology. That's an aspect on which I prefer not to touch. The point is, if you don't apologize, you go--where?" "To an aunt at Peckham." I pointed to the pleasant, comfortable land-scape, full of cows and carriage-horses out at grass, and civil retainers. In the midst of it stood Mr. Worters, radiating energy and wealth, like a terrestrial sun. "My dear Ford--don't be heroic! Apologize." Unfortunately I raised my voice a little, and Miss Beaumont heard me, down on the lawn. "Apologize?" she cried. "What about?" And as she was not interested in the game, she came up the steps towards us, trailing her croquet mallet behind her. Her walk was rather listless. She was toning down at last. "Come indoors!" I whispered. "We must get out of this." "Not a bit of it!" said Ford. "What is it?" she asked, standing beside him on the step. He swallowed something as he looked up at her. Suddenly I understood. I knew the nature and the subject of his poems. I was not so sure now that he had better apologize. The sooner he was kicked out of the place the better.