"Jolly good," said Tommy, easiest of critics, and the poet smiled.
"Ah, Tommy," he said, "I wish you were a publisher."
Over the crest of the downs rose a thin wisp of blue smoke; and as they descended on the other side, some dark-eyed children looked out of a little brown tent.
They reminded the poet of Jasper and his company of Pharaoh's children, and he repeated to Tommy the conversation I have touched upon.
Tommy's eyes sparkled.
"That's good," he said, approvingly. "Just what a fellow feels, you know."
They walked on across the green springy turf, and for a time both were silent.
There was something, too, in the day and its purity that was speaking to Tommy.
Presently he spoke, hesitatingly.