LITMIR.BIZ

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began to awake, and wander unseen through the still air. An occasional yellow sunbeam would slant through the thick roof of leaves and cling passionately to the orange clusters of mountain-ash berries. The trees were silent, drawing together to sleep. Only a few pink orchids stood palely by the path, looking wistfully out at the ranks of red-purple bugle, whose last flowers, glowing from the top of the bronze column, yearned darkly for the sun.

      We sauntered on in silence, not breaking the first hush of the woodlands. As we drew near home we heard a murmur from among the trees, from the lover’s seat, where a great tree had fallen and remained mossed and covered with fragile growth. There a crooked bough made a beautiful seat for two.

      “Fancy being in love and making a row in such a twilight,” said I as we continued our way. But when we came opposite the fallen tree, we saw no lovers there, but a man sleeping, and muttering through his sleep. The cap had fallen from his grizzled hair, and his head leaned back against a profusion of the little wild geraniums that decorated the dead bough so delicately. The man’s clothing was good, but slovenly and neglected. His face was pale and worn with sickness and dissipation. As he slept, his grey beard wagged, and his loose unlovely mouth moved in indistinct speech. He was acting over again some part of his life, and his features twitched during the unnatural sleep. He would give a little groan, gruesome to hear, and then talk to some woman. His features twitched as if with pain, and he moaned slightly.

      The lips opened in a grimace, showing the yellow teeth behind the beard. Then he began again talking in his throat, thickly, so that we could only tell part of what he said. It was very unpleasant. I wondered how we should end it. Suddenly through the gloom of the twilight-haunted woods came the scream of a rabbit caught by a weasel. The man awoke with a sharp “Ah!”— he looked round in consternation, then sinking down again wearily, said, “I was dreaming again.”

      “You don’t seem to have nice dreams,” said George.

      The man winced then, looking at us, said, almost sneering: “And who are you?”

      We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at us.

      “So!” he said at last, wearily, “I do dream. I do, I do.” He sighed heavily. Then he added, sarcastically, “Were you interested?”

      “No,” said I. “But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you want?”

      “You want me to clear out,” he said.

      “Well,” I said, laughing in deprecation, “I don’t mind your dreaming. But this is not the way to anywhere.”

      “Where may you be going then?” he asked.

      “I? Home,” I replied with dignity.

      “You are a Beardsall?” he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.

      “I am!” I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.

      He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood. Then he took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick seemed to catch at my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked with the old man along the path to the gate. We went with him into the open road. When we reached the clear sky where the light from the west fell full on our faces, he turned again and looked at us closely. His mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but he stopped himself, and only said, “Good-bye — Good-bye.”

      “Shall you be all right?” I asked, seeing him totter. “Yes — all right — good-bye, lad.”

      He walked away feebly into the darkness. We saw the lights of a vehicle on the high-road: after a while we heard the bang of a door, and a cab rattled away.

      “Well — whoever’s he?” said George, laughing.

      “Do you know,” said I, “it’s made me feel a bit rotten.”

      “Ay?” he laughed, turning up the end of the exclamation with indulgent surprise.

      We went back home, deciding to say nothing to the women. They were sitting in the window seat watching for us, Mother and Alice and Lettie.

      “You have been a long time!” said Lettie. “We’ve watched the sun go down — it set splendidly — look — the rim of the hill is smouldering yet. What have you been doing?”

      “Waiting till your Taurus finished work.”

      “Now be quiet,” she said hastily, and — turning to him —“You have come to sing hymns?”

      “Anything you like,” he replied.

      “How nice of you, George!” exclaimed Alice, ironically. She was a short, plump girl, pale, with daring, rebellious eyes. Her mother was a Wyld, a family famous either for shocking lawlessness, or for extreme uprightness. Alice, with an admirable father, and a mother who loved her husband passionately, was wild and lawless on the surface, but at heart very upright and amenable. My mother and she were fast friends, and Lettie had a good deal of sympathy with her. But Lettie generally deplored Alice’s outrageous behaviour, though she relished it — if “superior” friends were not present. Most men enjoyed Alice in company, but they fought shy of being alone with her.

      “Would you say the same to me?” she asked.

      “It depends what you’d answer,” he said, laughingly.

      “Oh, you’re so bloomin’ cautious. I’d rather have a tack in my shoe than a cautious man, wouldn’t you, Lettie?”

      “Well — it depends how far I had to walk,” was Lettie’s reply —“but if I hadn’t to limp too far ——”

      Alice turned away from Lettie, whom she often found rather irritating.

      “You do look glum, Sybil,” she said to me, “did somebody want to kiss you?”

      I laughed — on the wrong side, understanding her malicious feminine reference — and answered:

      “If they had, I should have looked happy.”

      “Dear boy, smile now then”— and she tipped me under the chin. I drew away.

      “Oh, Gum — we are solemn! What’s the matter with you? Georgie — say something — else I’s’ll begin to feel nervous.”

      “What shall I say?” he asked, shifting his feet and resting his elbows on his knees. “Oh, Lor!” she cried in great impatience. He did not help her, but sat clasping his hands, smiling on one side of his face. He was nervous. He looked at the pictures, the ornaments, and everything in the room; Lettie got up to settle some flowers on the mantelpiece, and he scrutinised her closely. She was dressed in some blue foulard stuff, with lace at the throat, and lace cuffs to the elbow. She was tall and supple; her hair had a curling fluffiness very charming. He was no taller than she, and looked shorter, being strongly built. He too had a grace of his own, but not as he sat stiffly on a horse-hair chair. She was elegant in her movements.

      After a little while Mother called us in to supper.

      “Come,” said Lettie to him, “take me in to supper.” He rose, feeling very awkward.

      “Give me your arm,” said she to tease him. He did so, and flushed under his tan, afraid of her round arm half hidden by lace, which lay among his sleeve.

      When we were seated she flourished her spoon and asked him what he would have. He hesitated, looked at the strange dishes, and said he would have some cheese. They insisted on his eating new, complicated meats.

      “I’m sure you like tantafflins, don’t you, Georgie?” said Alice, in her mocking fashion. He was not sure. He could not analyse the flavours, he felt confused and bewildered even through his sense of taste! Alice begged him to have salad.

      “No, thanks,” said he. “I don’t like it.”

      “Oh, George!” she said. “How can you say so when I’m offering it you.”

      “Well —

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