"No, I didn't," snapped the composer. "Strode and I were friends at school and college, certainly, but we met rarely in after life. The last time I saw him was when he brought his wife down here."
"Poor Lady Jane," sighed Mrs. Hill, who was seated with folded hands.
"You may well say that, Saccharissa. She was wedded to a clown----"
"I thought Mr. Strode was a clever and cultured man," said Allen drily.
"He should have been," said Mr. Hill, waving his hand and then sticking it into the breast of his shirt. "I did my best to form him. But flowers will not grow in clay, and Strode was made of stodgy clay. A poor creature, and very quarrelsome."
"That doesn't sound like stodgy clay, sir."
"He varied, Allen, he varied. At times the immortal fire he buried in his unfruitful soil would leap out at my behest; but for the most part Strode was an uncultured yokel. The lambent flame of my fancy, my ethereal fancy, played on the mass harmlessly, or with small result. I could not submit to be bound even by friendship to such a clod, so I got rid of Strode. And how did I do it? I lent him two thousand pounds, and not being able to repay it, shame kept him away. Cheap at the price--cheap at the price. Allen, how does this theme strike you for an opening chorus of Druids--modern Druids, of course? The scene is at Anglesea----"
"Wait, father. You hinted the other morning that Mr. Strode would never come back to Wargrove."
"Did I?" said Mr. Hill in an airy manner; "I forget."
"What grounds had you to say that?"