then you will probably strike a new note." "I don't think much of Herrick," muttered Ferdinand proudly. "Too cheerful, perhaps?" said Beaumont sarcastically. "That's a pity, as I see you are in danger of joining the dyspeptic school of poets, of whom we have been talking. Don't have too much gaslight about your muse, my dear boy, but let her be the buxom nymph of that charming old pagan, Robert Herrick." "Your remarks are very sensible," observed the vicar heartily, as Beaumont rose to go. "If poetry must be written, let it be natural poetry. There is too much of the dissecting-table and charnel-house about our modern rhymists." "It's the dead world of the past which presses on the dying world of the present," said Ferdinand, gloomily. "Oh, bosh!" cried Dick, in disgust. "Your liver's out of order, my dear chap, that's what's the matter with you." The outraged poet withdrew in haughty dignity, while Beaumont took his leave of this kindly family circle, who pressed him to come again, so much had they enjoyed his company. "Come again," muttered Beaumont to himself, as he strolled back to the inn, with a cigarette between his lips. "I should rather think so. I've won the vicar's heart by my disinterested affection for his _protégé_. It's wonderful, the effect of a little diplomacy--so much better than outward defiance. I think, my dear Patience, that should you take it into your foolish head to malign me, you will find it a more difficult task than you think. Diplomacy is the only weapon I can use against a woman like you, and it's an uncommonly useful weapon when properly used." CHAPTER XV A FANTASTIC THEORIST. "He is a man Full of strange thoughts, and fancies whimsical, Who dreams of dreams that make his life a dream. And had he powers supernal at command, Would tumble heaven itself about our ears In his mad searchings for--I wot not what." The room which Beaumont had turned into a studio while painting Squire Garsworth's portrait, overlooked the terrace on to which the French windows opened. It was the drawing-room of the Grange, and was magnificently furnished in the ponderous style of the Georgian period, though now, being but rarely used, an air of desertion and decay seemed to linger about it. The windows, however, being large and curtainless, there was an excellent light to paint by, so Basil established his easel near the centre window, and placed the squire at one further along, in order that the full light should fall on his withered face, showing the multitudinous wrinkles and stern expression that made it a study worthy of Rembrandt. Beaumont often glanced at the attenuated form lying listlessly back in the great arm-chair, and wondered what curious event had changed this man from an idle reveller into an industrious scholar.