“Oh yes, and in London, at a friend’s house.”
“It was a loss to me when he went away, a serious loss. I am doing my utmost to persuade him to come over and spend a week with me, but he won’t promise. We had a surprising similarity of tastes. He enjoyed the old dramatists, who, I think, you know are my favourite study.”
“Does he live in London?”
“No. In Norwich. It is his native town.”
Mr. Vissian, ever discreet, made no mention of his friend’s pursuits.
“Really, Miss Warren,” he continued, “you must allow me to tell you what pleasure you have been giving me of late. That story of yours in Roper s Miscellany is one of the most delightful things I have read for a long time. I don’t read modern fiction as a rule, but it is my hope that I may not miss anything you publish henceforth. I should not have seen this, I fear, but for my friend Kingcote. He sent me a copy of the magazine, and with it words of such strong commendation that I fell to at the feast forthwith.”
There was a glow of pleasure on the girl’s face; she said nothing, and looked away over the sunny meadows.
“There is an energy in your style,” pursued the rector, “which I relish exceedingly. Clearly you have drunk of the pure wells of English. Doubtless you read your Chaucer devoutly? A line of him has been ringing in my head for the last two days; no doubt you remember it, in the ‘Legende of Goode Women’—
‘And sworen on the blosmes to be trewe.’
One of the sweetest lines in all English poetry.”