In Rome Guy picked up Michael Fane who was on the point of starting for the Benedictine monastery at Cava. Having a few days to spare before he went on to Brindisi, he agreed to spend the time with Michael tramping in the sun along the Parthenopean shore.
"I can't understand what consolation you expect to find by shutting yourself up with a lot of frowsty monks," said Guy fretfully.
"Nor can I understand when just at the moment you have been dealt the blow that should at last determine if you are to be an artist," retorted Michael, "I can't understand why you choose that exact moment to go and be futile in Macedonia."
"Do you think I would be an artist now, even if I could?" asked Guy fiercely. "How I hate such a point of view. No, no, I have made myself miserable and I have made someone else miserable because I thought I wanted to be an artist. But never, never, shall that old jejune ambition be gratified now."
"You'll never try to write anything more?"
"Nothing," said Guy.
"Then what has all this been for?"
"Perhaps to come back in a year, and ... listen:
O ragged robins, you will bloom each year,
But we shall never pluck you after rain:
For aye, O ragged hearts, you beat alone,
And never more shall you be joined again.
Do you think I want to come back in a year and still be able to versify my grief like that? I look forward to something better than minor poetry."