I caught a glimpse of a strangely characteristic hat in the corner of the little waiting-room.
Its shapelessness was familiar.
I looked in, and the poet seemed a little confused.
"Lucien and Angel—?" I began, enquiringly.
He waved his hand, with some superiority.
"Inspiration cannot be commanded," he observed. "They shall wait until Saturday."
We sat down in the shade, and conversation flagged. Presently steps approached, pacing slowly along the wooden platform.
It was the vicar.
He looked a little conscious, and no doubt read the enquiry in my eyes.
"It is too hot," he said, "to drive to Becklington before tea," and the three of us sat silently down together.