were a pity. Rickie did not agree with this. He said again that
nothing beautiful was ever to be regretted.

"You're cracked on beauty," she whispered--they were still inside
the church. "Do hurry up and write something."

"Something beautiful?"

"I believe you can. I'm going to lecture you seriously all the
way home. Take care that you don't waste your life."

They continued the conversation outside. "But I've got to hate my
own writing. I believe that most people come to that stage--not
so early though. What I write is too silly. It can't happen. For
instance, a stupid vulgar man is engaged to a lovely young lady.
He wants her to live in the towns, but she only cares for woods.
She shocks him this way and that, but gradually he tames her, and
makes her nearly as dull as he is. One day she has a last
explosion--over the snobby wedding presents--and flies out of the
drawing-room window, shouting, 'Freedom and truth!' Near the
house is a little dell full of fir-trees, and she runs into it.
He comes there the next moment. But she's gone."

"Awfully exciting. Where?"

"Oh Lord, she's a Dryad!" cried Rickie, 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