He could count on about half an hour of this illusion before Flossie appeared. Afraid of losing one moment of it, he began instantly on the thing he had to say. "All this time I've been waiting to thank you for your introduction to Fielding." "Oh," she said eagerly, "what did he say? Tell me." He told her. As she listened he could see how small a pleasure was enough to give life again to her tired face. "I am so glad," she said in the low voice of sincerity; "so very glad." She paused. "That justifies my belief in you. Not that it needed any justification." "I don't know. Your cousin, who is the best critic I know, would tell you that it did." "My cousin--perhaps. But he _does_ see that those poems are great. Only he's so made that I think no greatness reconciles him to--well, to little faults, if they are faults of taste." "Did you find many faults of taste?" She smiled. "I found some; but only in the younger poems. There were none--none at all--in the later ones. Which of course is what one might expect." "It is, indeed. Did you look at the dates? Did you notice that all those later things were written either at Harmouth, or after?" "I did." "And didn't that strike you as significant? Didn't you draw any conclusions?" "I drew the conclusion that--that the poet I knew had worked out his own salvation." "Exactly--the poet you knew. Didn't it occur to you that he might never have done it, if you hadn't known him?" He looked at her steadily. The colour on her face had deepened, but her eyes, as they met his, were grave and meditative. She seemed to be considering the precise meaning of his words before she answered. "No, I didn't." "What, never? Think. Don't you remember how you used to help me?" She shook her head. "I only remember that I meant to have helped you. And I was very sorry because I couldn't. But I see now how absurd it was of me; and how unnecessary." He knew that she was thinking now of her private secretary. "It was beautiful of you. But, you know, it couldn't have happened. It was one of those beautiful things that never can happen." "That's why I was so sorry. I thought it must look as if I hadn't meant it." "But you did mean it. Nothing can alter that, can it?" "No. You must take the will for the deed." "I do. The will is the only thing that matters." "Yes. But--it was absurd of me--but I thought you might have been counting on it?" "Did I count on it? I suppose I did; though I knew it was impossible. You forget that I knew all the time it was impossible. It was only a beautiful idea." "I'm sorry, then, that it had to remain an idea."