"When you write anything," he said, "you may always send it to me. But no more—please—no more Saturnalia."
"There won't be any more Saturnalia."
"Good. I do not ask you to come again to see me."
Rickman struggled for an answer, but could not think of anything better than, "It's enough for me to have seen you once," which was not at all what he had meant to say.
Fielding smiled faintly; his humour pleased, Rickman fancied, with the ambiguity of his shy speech.
"I'm afraid I've tired you, sir," he said impulsively.
"You have not tired me. I tire myself. But here is Miss Gurney; she will look after you and give you tea."
"Geniality," he continued, "is not my strong point, as you may have perceived. And any unnatural effort of the kind fatigues me. My own fault."
"You have been very generous to me."
"Generous? There can't be any generosity between equals. Only a simple act of justice. It is you who have been good to me."