The Miss O'Connors asked them both to tea, and Philip would have liked to go, but Miss Wilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely to herself.
It was flattering, but a bore.
Miss Wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies as he to Miss Wilkinson.
She praised their courtesy, their passion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact.
Miss Wilkinson seemed to want a great deal.
Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain satisfaction that she lived in Berlin.
"You will write to me, won't you? Write to me every day.
I want to know everything you're doing.
You must keep nothing from me."
"I shall be awfully, busy" he answered. "I'll write as often as I can."
She flung her arms passionately round his neck.
He was embarrassed sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection.
He would have preferred her to be more passive.
It shocked him a little that she should give him so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessions about the modesty of the feminine temperament.
At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress of black and white check. She looked a very competent governess.
Philip was silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit the circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something flippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a scene.
They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden the night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no opportunity for them to be alone.
He remained in the dining-room after breakfast in case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs.
He did not want Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position.
Mary Ann did not like Miss Wilkinson and called her an old cat.
Aunt Louisa was not very well and could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off.
Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr. Carey.
"I must kiss you too, Philip," she said.
"All right," he said, blushing.
He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly.
The train started, and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept disconsolately.
Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief.
"Well, did you see her safely off?" asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in.
"Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip."
"Oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous."
Mrs. Carey pointed to the sideboard. "There's a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second post."
It was from Hayward and ran as follows:
My dear boy,
I answer your letter at once.
I ventured to read it to a great friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming.
You wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every line.
And because you love you write like a poet.
Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of your emotion.
You must be happy!
I wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers.
I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er consent—consented.
Roses and violets and honeysuckle!
Oh, my friend, I envy you.
It is so good to think that your first love should have been pure poetry.
Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day.
You will never again enjoy that careless rapture.
First love is best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours.
I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you buried your face in her long hair.
I am sure that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold.
I would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her.