gent appreciation from an unbiassed critic. But Breton was not to
be won over. He sat deep in his chair and replied in sulky monosyllables
whenever he was addressed.

Christopher soon gave him up and the three men talked amongst
themselves.

The heat of the afternoon passed and a little breeze danced into the
room, and the hard brightness of the sky changed to a pale primrose that
had still some echo of the blue in its faint colour.

The city had uttered no sound through the heat of the day, but now
voices came up to the windows: the distant crying of papers, the call of
some man with flowers, then the bells of the Round Church began to ring
for evensong.

Breton sat there, wrapped in sulky discontent. In his heart he was
wretched. Christopher had deserted him; these men would have nothing to
do with him. As was his nature everything about him was exaggerated. He
had come to Brun's rooms that afternoon, feeling that men had taken him
back to their citizenship again. Now he was more urgently assured of his
ostracism than before. Who were these men to give themselves these airs?
Because he had made one slip were they to constitute themselves his
judges? These Beaminster virtues again--the trail of his family at every
step, that same damnable hypocrisy, that same priggish assumption of the
right to judge. Better to die in the society of those friends of his who
had suffered as he had done, from the judgment of the world--no scorn of
sinners there, no failure in all sense of true proportion.

Christopher got up to go. He gave Arkwright his card. "Come in and dine
one night and tell me all you're doing----"

"Of course I'll come," Arkwright said. "Only you're much too busy----"

"Indeed no," said Christopher. "One day next week you'll hear from
me----"

Breton got up. "I'll come with you," he said to Christopher.

The two men went away together.

When they were gone Arkwright said to Brun, "Now that's the kind of man
I like----"

"Yes," said Brun, laughing. "Better than the other fellow, eh?"

Arkwright smiled. "More my sort, I must confess."

III

Christopher and Breton did not speak until they reached Oxford Circus.
Here everything, flower-women, omnibuses, grey buildings, grimy men and
women--was drowned in purple shadow. It might be only a moment's beauty,
but now beneath the evening star, frosted silver and alone in a blue
heaven, sound advanced and receded with the quiet rhythm of water over
sand. F