in great disgust. "She's turned
into a tree."

"Rickie, it's very good indeed. The kind of thing has something in it.
Of course you get it all through Greek and Latin. How upset the man must
be when he sees the girl turn."

"He doesn't see her. He never guesses. Such a man could never see a
Dryad."

"So you describe how she turns just before he comes up?"

"No. Indeed I don't ever say that she does turn. I don't use the word
'Dryad' once."

"I think you ought to put that part plainly. Otherwise, with such an
original story, people might miss the point. Have you had any luck with
it?"

"Magazines? I haven't tried. I know what the stuff's worth. You see, a
year or two ago I had a great idea of getting into touch with Nature,
just as the Greeks were in touch; and seeing England so beautiful, I
used to pretend that her trees and coppices and summer fields of parsley
were alive. It's funny enough now, but it wasn't funny then, for I got
in such a state that I believed, actually believed, that Fauns lived in
a certain double hedgerow near the Cog Magogs, and one evening I walked
a mile sooner than go through it alone."

"Good gracious!" She laid her hand on his shoulder.

He moved to the other side of the road. "It's all right now. I've
changed those follies for others. But while I had them I began to write,
and even now I keep on writing, though I know better. I've got quite a
pile of little stories, all harping on this ridiculous idea of getting
into touch with Nature."

"I wish you weren't so modest. It's simply splendid as an idea.
Though--but tell me about the Dryad who was engaged to be married. What
was she like?"

"I can show you the dell in which the young person disappeared. We pass
it on the right in a moment."

"It does seem a pity that you don't make something of your talents. It
seems such a waste to write little stories and never publish them. You
must have enough for a book. Life is so full in our days that short
stories are the very thing; they get read by people who'd never tackle a
novel. For example, at our Dorcas we tried to read out a long affair
by Henry James--Herbert saw it recommended in 'The Times.' There was no
doubt it was very good, but one simply couldn't remember from one week
to another what had happened. So now our aim is to get something that
just lasts the hour. I take you seriously, Rickie, and that is why I am
so offensive. You are too modest. People who think they can do