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At the end of the meal John Pybus piled the crockery neatly on a tray and carried it into the kitchen. He came back to join Lance in the lighting of pipes. The talk between them had turned aside into one of those silences which resemble a halt under the shadow of a tree before the next march forward. They went out to feed the pigeons.

“About this being yourself,” said the Venerable, scattering crumbs; “it’s easier to be a pigeon than a man.”

“How do you mean?”

“A complete man. Being yourself is being a complete man, isn’t it? Crowds, and still more crowds. Peas packed in a pod. How many men can be themselves? Can’t afford it; haven’t time; isn’t enough room. Besides—what is myself?”

“I see you very clearly, grandpater.”

“It’s easier—perhaps—to see someone else. What am I to see in you?”

“A free man—body and soul.”

“No one—is wholly free. Even the desert island idea has its limitations. What you are asking for is free self-expression.”

“Yes—that’s it—that’s it. I want to interpret things; I want to write.”

His grandfather watched the birds feeding at Lance’s feet.

“Yes, if you are big enough, people will come and feed at your feet. But meanwhile——”

“One has to live.”

“Exactly. Being yourself may mean doing without.”

“I’ve thought of that.”

“Standing aside from the scramble. Teeth set—stomach empty, alone, the woman passing you by, the successful young tripe-merchants calling you—‘That fool!’”

“Need it be—like that?”

“Take it for granted that it may be like that. What’s your plan?”

“It’s in the making, grandpater.”

“A top-floor room in London, or a labourer’s cottage in the country? Sending up manuscripts and having them sent back again? There’s bound to be some of that. Unless—of course—your father——”

He glanced at his grandson’s set face.

“I don’t want help.”

“That’s unusual.”

“I’m as good as other men who have had to go into the dog-fight without a collar.”

“Money helps, my lad.”

“Does it?”

“Unless it saps your fierceness.”

“My father made his own success.”

“Business is easier than the writing of books. And books have to sell. I’m not a commercialist. But youth asks for things. It feeds on its own heart. I’m old; I have ceased to ask for certain things; I have the few simple things I want. For me—there is no—woman.”

Lance was leaning against the wall with the air of a man with his back very much to it.

“Yes, I think I understand. You have to begin with the hair-shirt idea.”

“Somewhat,” said his grandfather; “come and look at life, modern life. You get it—samples of it—even in Castle Craven.”