"Always, just where I was going, too, by a curious coincidence. And her old aunt is a regular tartar; I don't suppose there ever was such a typical female guardian outside a penny novelette. But she is turning out a trump now about taking Maud abroad, I will say that for her. They remain at Dover a week. I've arranged for it. I knew you two would wish me to feel myself quite untrammelled, and, indeed, I wish it myself. Then we'll hand him the whole series, and see how he takes it; and tell him we've shown it to a few of his most intimate friends first, and your aunt, Parker--she'll nearly die of it--and that they are all of opinion that it's the best thing he has done since his paper on Bacchylides." Neither of us answered. In spite of myself I was sorry for Maitland. A few days later Barrett came to my rooms. We knocked on the floor for Parker, and he came up. Then he put down a letter on the table and we read it in silence. It was just what we expected, an enigmatic, self-protecting effusion. Maitland was hedging. He had evidently been put off by Maud's illness, and talked a great deal about friendship being the crown of life, and how she must think of nothing but the care of her health, etc., etc.; and he on his side must not be selfish and trouble her with too many letters, etc. "Brute," said Parker. "There's another," said Barrett. "You don't mean to say you wrote again. There's not been time." "No. _He_ wrote again. He doesn't seem to have been perfectly satisfied with the chivalry of the letter you've just read. He's always great on chivalry, you know. And it certainly would be hard to make that last letter dovetail in with his previous utterances on a man's instinct to guard and protect the opposite sex." Barrett threw down a bulky letter and--may God forgive us--Parker and I read it together under the lamp. "I can't go on," said Parker after a few minutes. "You must," said Barrett savagely. We read it through from the first word to the last, and as we read Parker's face became as grave as Barrett's. It is an awful thing when a poseur ceases to pose, when an egoist becomes a human being. But this is what had befallen Maitland. The thing had happened which one would have thought could not possibly happen. He had fallen in love. I can't put in the whole of his letter here. Indeed, I don't remember it very clearly. But I shall not forget the gist of it while I live.