“Oh, thanks; if I’m not needed in the parish I’d love to. Yes, I’m almost sure I can.” “We all meet at Waterloo for the nine-thirty. We shall have breakfast at Heathermere (but you can have had some earlier, too, if you like), and then walk somewhere from there. Bring a thick coat, because we shall be sitting about on the heath, and it’s not warm.” “Thanks awfully, if you’re sure I may come.” Jane wasted no more words on that; she probably never asked people to come unless she was sure they might. She merely waved an appreciative hand, like a child, at the blue night full of lights, seeking his sympathy in the wonder of it. Then she and Sally had to change into the Blackfriars Bridge bus, and Eddy sought London Bridge and the Borough on foot. Billy Raymond, who lived in Beaufort Street, but was taking a walk, came with him. They talked on the way about the play. Billy made criticisms and comments that seemed to Eddy very much to the point, though they wouldn’t have occurred to him. There was an easy ability, a serene independence of outlook, about this young man, that was attractive. Like many poets, he was singularly fresh and unspoilt, though in his case (unlike many poets) it wasn’t because he had nothing to spoil him; he enjoyed, in fact, some reputation among critics and the literary public. He figured in many an anthology of verse, and those who gave addresses on modern poetry were apt to read his things aloud, which habit annoys some poets and gratifies others. Further, he had been given a reading all to himself at the Poetry Bookshop, which had rather displeased him, because he had not liked the voice of the lady who read him. But enough has been said to indicate that he was a promising young poet. When Eddy got in, he found the vicar and Hillier smoking by the common-room fire. The vicar was nodding over Pickwick, and Hillier perusing the _Church Times_. The vicar, who had been asleep, said, “Hullo, Oliver. Want anything to eat or drink? Had a nice evening?” “Very, thanks. No, I’ve been fed sufficiently.” “Play good?” “Yes, quite clever.... I say, would it be awfully inconvenient if I was to be out next Sunday? Some people want me to go out for the day with them. Of course there’s my class. But perhaps Wilkes.... He said he wouldn’t mind, sometimes.” “No; that’ll be all right. Speak to Wilkes, will you.... Shall you be away all day?” “I expect so,” said Eddy, feeling that Hillier looked at him askance, though the vicar didn’t. Probably Hillier didn’t approve of Sunday outings, thought one should be in church. He sat down and began to talk about “Squibs.” Hillier said presently, “He’s surely rather a mountebank, that Le Moine? Full of cheap sneers and clap-trap, isn’t he?” “Oh, no,” said Eddy. “Certainly not clap-trap. He’s very genuine, I should say; expresses his personality a good deal more successfully than most play writers.” “Oh, no doubt,” Hillier said. “It’s his personality, I should fancy, that’s wrong.”