or an instant a black figure of an omnibus stood against the blue
and held all the swell, the glow, the stir at a fixed point--then life
was once more distributed.

Here, as they turned down Oxford Street Christopher broke silence. He
put his arm through Breton's:

"Well, Frank? Sulks not over yet?"

Breton broke away. "It's all very well, but I suppose I'm to pretend
that I like being insulted by any kind of fool who happens to turn up.
Good God, Chris, you'd think I was a child by the way you talk to me."

"And so you are a child," said Christopher impatiently, "and a thankless
child too. Sometimes I wonder why I keep on bothering with you."

Christopher was, like other Scotchmen, a curious mixture of amiability
and irascibility; his temper came from his pride and Breton had learnt,
many years ago, to fear it. In fact, of all the things in life that he
disliked doing, quarrelling with Christopher was the most agreeable.
Then there were stubbornness and tenacity that were hard indeed to deal
with. But to-day he was reckless; the heat of the afternoon and now the
beauty of the evening had both, in their different ways, contributed to
his ill-temper. He knew, even now, that afterwards he would regret every
word that he uttered, but he let his temper go.

"I wonder that you do bother," he said. "Let me alone and let me find my
own way."

"Don't be a fool," Christopher answered. "There's nothing in the world
for us to quarrel about, only I can't bear to see you giving such a
wrong impression of yourself to strangers--sulking there as though you
were five years old----"

"All very well," retorted Breton; "you didn't hear the way that fellow
insulted me. I'll wring his neck if I meet him again. I'll----"

"Now, enough of that!" Christopher's voice was stern. "You know quite
well, Frank, that you're hardly in a position to wring anyone's neck.
You remember the account I gave you of my little dispute with your
grandmother----"

"Thank you," said Breton fiercely. "You remind me rather frequently of
the kind things you do for me."

And all the time something in him was whispering to him, "_What_ a fool
you are to talk like this!"

Christopher's voice now was cold: "That's hardly fair of you. I'm
turning up here----" They paused. Breton looked away from him up into
the quiet blue recesses of the side street. Christopher went on: "I only
mean that if I were you I should drop hanging on to the skirts of a
family who