But for that, his genius, a thing apart,
might have claimed her friendship for itself. As it was, his genius,
being after all bound up with his person which suffered and was
ashamed, had (as far as Lucia was concerned) to accept its humiliation
and dismissal.
And all the time his genius, already vigorous enough in all
conscience, throve on his suffering as it had thriven on his joy. In
that summer of ninety-two, Rickman's _Saturnalia_ were followed by _On
Harcombe Hill_ and _The Four Winds_, and that greatest poem of his
lyric period, _The Song of Confession_. Upon the young poet about town
there had descended, as it were out of heaven, a power hitherto
undreamed of and undivined. No rapture of the body was ever so winged
and flamed, or lost itself in such heights and depths of music, as
that cry of the passion of his soul.
CHAPTER XLI
Meanwhile, of a Sunday evening, Miss Poppy Grace wondered why
Ricky-ticky never by any chance appeared upon his balcony. At last,
coming home about ten o'clock from one of his walks to Hampstead, he
found Poppy leaning out over _her_ balcony most unmistakably on the
look-out.
"Come in and have some supper," said she.
"No thanks, I fancy it's a little late."
"Better late than never, when it's supper with _me_. Catch!" And
Poppy, in defiance of all propriety, tossed her latch-key over the
balcony. And somehow that latch-key had to be returned. He did not use
it, but rang, with the intention of handing it to the servant; an
intention divined and frustrated by Poppy, who opened the door to him
herself.
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