"My dear Robin, I cannot be your shadow. You are quite well able to look after yourself now. I took you for this walking tour, to do you good. Now you are in excellent health. I must remain here until Mrs. Marsh is quite well. Remember if I go she has no doctor to attend her." "I can't do without you," persisted Robin. "You have such an influence over me that I am lost if you are away." "You must take up your life on your own shoulders," replied Herrick impatiently; "it is no use relying on other people. But if you feel that I am so indispensable to you, why not stay here? You have money, no ties, and can do your work here better than in London." "I want to go back to town. If I stay here I shall not see much of you. Marsh is your friend now." "I like Marsh. He is a good fellow, and I can make something of him. I suppose Robin you think I am after his money; but you know me better than that. The three hundred a year I have is enough for me. I was never a man for luxury." "I never thought or hinted such a thing," said Joyce with a blush. "Well, if you like to stay here Jim, I'll return to London, and we can meet when you return. I suppose you'll be back some time,--that is if Miss Endicotte will let you go." "Nonsense," replied Dr. Jim, "she has no thought of me. I like her very much but in my present state of poverty I could not ask her to be my wife." Joyce said nothing more, but the next week took his leave. He was much missed in Saxham where his bright talk and merry face had made him a general favourite. The Biff's especially were sorry. Bess had foregathered with Joyce on the common ground of literature, and she lamented when he departed. "Why can't you stay here?" she said in her blunt way, "you can work better in the country." "No, Miss Bess. I am like Charles Lamb; London is my home. I cannot get enough of the divine fire in this tame locality." "There is nothing tame about it," cried Bess fired with indignation. Joyce laughed. "Not to you perhaps; but I prefer London myself. However, I hope you will let me come down and see you at times. And we can correspond. And if you have any manuscripts you think well of, send them to me. I will see what I can do with them." This arrangement was made, and Robin, taking a friendly leave of Jim went back to his West Kensington fiat. He wrote frequently at first, but after a time his letters became rarer. Herrick was sorry, but on the whole somewhat relieved to be rid of such a burden. For Robin was one of those people who are delightful to meet and terrible to live with. Had he been ill or in trouble the conscientious Jim would have stayed with him. But since he had been particularly well after that attack of nerves when the body was discovered, there was no necessity for Herrick to martyrise himself further.