perfected state of beauty in heaven—is dead, finished, ended, over, when a man dies and his body corrupts and turns into dust.… Do you see?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I see.'
There was a pause for a moment. Then:
'Would you like to go to Glastonbury when you are older?' he said.
'Is Glastonbury a big school? How many fellows are there?' I asked.
'Not so big as many others: my old school, for instance, Winchester. But there are quite enough: two hundred. What do you think?'
'Would you be there?' I asked.
'Yes,' he said, 'I should be there.' He did not seem to be thinking about me then.
I looked at him. My look seemed to recall him from somewhere.
'Listen!' he said suddenly, brightening and bending down; 'don't brood so much, little man. You hear me, don't you? Don't go thinking about things till they grow hateful to you. Try to be bright and merry. Be with the other fellows more.… I was right, there? You aren't much? "They're such fools!" hey?' (He laughed.) 'Well, you mustn't mind that. You're not always wise, are you?… You don't think I'm sermoning you?'
'No,' I said, 'I see.'
A pause.
He smiled again.
'At any rate,' he said, and pinched my cheek gently, 'Mr. Whittaker has given me permission to write to your guardian, Colonel James, as well as promised to write himself, about your going to Glastonbury. You would like to go?'
'Yes,' said I, 'I should—if you would be there.'
'In all probability, I should,' he said.
'I,' I began, 'I …' but did not go on.
And it was somehow with this that we parted.
I watched him go up along the passage between the chairs and, bending, through the far door. And then I felt that I wished I had said something to him, but I did not know what.
