guests to entertain, while the first half went away; and that during that time there was to be very little work done.  We were not to be always writing, but there was to be reading, about which he would advise.  Once a week there was a meeting, on Saturday evening, when one of the men had to read something aloud, and be generally criticised.  “You see the idea?” he said.  “It sounds complicated now, but it really is very simple.  It is just to get solid work done regularly, with a certain amount of supervision and criticism, and, what is more important still, real intervals of travelling.  I shall send you to a particular place for a particular purpose, and you will have to write about it on lines which I shall indicate.  The danger of this sort of life is that of getting stale.  That’s why I don’t want you to see too much of each other.  And last of all,” he said, rather gravely, “you must do what I tell you to do.  There must be no mistake about that—­but with all the apparent discipline of it, I believe you will find it worth while.”

Then he saw us each separately.  He inquired into our finances.  Vincent had a small allowance from his parents, about L50, which he was told to keep for pocket-money, but Father Payne said he would pay his travelling expenses.  I gathered that he gave an allowance to men who had nothing of their own.  He told me that I should have to travel at my own expense, but he was careful first to inquire whether my mother was in any way dependent on me.  Then he said to me with a smile:  “I am glad you decided to come—­I thought my letter would have offended you.  No?  That’s all right.  Now, I don’t expect heroic exertions—­just hard work.  Mind,” he said, “I will add one thing to my letter, and that is that I think you may make a success of this—­if you do take to it, you will do well; but you will have to be patient, and you may have a dreary time; but I want you to tell me exactly at any time how you are feeling about it.  You won’t be driven, and I think your danger is that you may try to make the pace too much.”

He further asked me exactly what I was writing.  It happened to be some essays on literary subjects.  He mentioned a few books, and told me it would do very well to start with.  He was very kind and fatherly in his manner, and when I rose to go, he put his arm through mine and said:  “Come, it will be strange if we can’t hit it off together.  I like your presence and talk, and am glad to think you are in the house.  Don’t be anxious!  The difficulty with you is that you will foresee all your troubles beforehand, and try to bolt them in a lump, instead of swallowing them one by one as they come.  Live for the day!” There was something magnetic about him, for by these few words he established a little special relation with me which was never broken.

When he dismissed me, I went and changed my things, and then came down.  I found that it was the custom for the men to go down to the hall about eight.  Father Payne said that it was a great mistake to work to the last minute, and then to rush in to dinner.  He said it made people nervous and dyspeptic.  He generally strolled in himself a few minutes before, and sate silent by the fire.