On inquiry I found that all his philanthropic societies had forgiven and taken him back. After sulking a while and flirting with various paid secretaries, they had agreed for economy’s sake to let bygones be bygones. They had been unable to find any other person who would serve them as loyally without salary, and who at the same time was able to offer up such beautiful extempore prayers. The list of their contributors had afforded Rapson his happiest hunting-ground. Procuring my uncle’s services for nothing was their only way of getting anything back. “And what about Rapson?” I asked. “Do you still believe in him?” He shook his head dolefully. “I begin to lose faith, Dante; I begin to doubt.” “But have you heard from him since he went away?” “Never a word.” He hesitated and then he said, “There’s Kitty, you know. He didn’t do the straight thing by her. No, I’m afraid Rapson wasn’t a good man.” At mention of Kitty I pricked up my ears; I had often wondered about her. “What had Kitty to do with him?” I asked. “Were they engaged?” “No, unfortunately.” “In love?” “Perhaps.” “Married?” “I wish they had been. After he’d left her, she was awfully cut up. I did what I could for her. You remember that hundred pounds?” “My father--at Chelsea--the Christmas present?” “Yes. I couldn’t keep it. I gave it to her.” “You always have to be giving something,” I said. We were sitting on an upturned barrow in the paddock when this conversation took place. I thought how characteristic of Uncle Obad that was--to be helping others at a time when he himself was most in need of help. But his kindness knew no seasons. Then I began, as a very young man will, to think of Kitty, and, because of her frailty, to picture her through a haze of romance. “Where’s Kitty now?” I asked. “She’s in a photographer’s at Oxford. She serves behind a counter. But, come, you’ve not told me yet what you think of my fowls.” CHAPTER XI--STAR-DUST DAYS The walls of the garden had fallen. Childhood was ended and with it all those absurd, aching fears lest I should never be a man and lest time might be a stationary, unescapable present, with no trap-doors giving access to the future. The experiment of life had begun in earnest, and the adventure. That first October night of my residence at Oxford is forever memorable. Before leaving Pope Lane I had been led aside by my father. He had taken it for granted that I was now capable of a man’s follies and had warned me against them. Somehow his assumption that I had it in my choice to become a Don Juan warmed my heart; it impressed me as a tribute to my manhood--a tacit acknowledgment that I was a free agent. Free at last! I did not understand one-tenth part of all that he hinted at. But his presumption that I did understand seemed to me a form of compliment. To ask for an explanation was a heroism of which I was not capable. So I left home clad in the armor of ignorance to do battle with the world.