with a shiver of
disgust, for his nerves were on edge, shut the window with a slam.

CHAPTER XXVIII

HILARY HEARS THE CUCKOO SING

It was not left to Cecilia alone to remark how very white Mr. Stone
looked in these days.

The wild force which every year visits the world, driving with its soft
violence snowy clouds and their dark shadows, breaking through all crusts
and sheaths, covering the earth in a fierce embrace; the wild force which
turns form to form, and with its million leapings, swift as the flight of
swallows and the arrow-darts of the rain, hurries everything on to sweet
mingling--this great, wild force of universal life, so-called the Spring,
had come to Mr. Stone, like new wine to some old bottle. And Hilary, to
whom it had come, too, watching him every morning setting forth with a
rough towel across his arm, wondered whether the old man would not this
time leave his spirit swimming in the chill waters of the Serpentine--so
near that spirit seemed to breaking through its fragile shell.

Four days had gone by since the interview at which he had sent away the
little model, and life in his household--that quiet backwater choked with
lilies--seemed to have resumed the tranquillity enjoyed before this
intrusion of rude life. The paper whiteness of Mr. Stone was the only
patent evidence that anything disturbing had occurred--that and certain
feelings about which the strictest silence was preserved.

On the morning of the fifth day, seeing the old man stumble on the level
flagstones of the garden, Hilary finished dressing hastily, and followed.
He overtook him walking forward feebly beneath the candelabra of
flowering chestnut-trees, with a hail-shower striking white on his high
shoulders; and, placing himself alongside, without greeting--for forms
were all one to Mr. Stone--he said:

"Surely you don't mean to bathe during a hail storm, sir! Make an
exception this once. You're not looking quite yourself."

Mr. Stone shook his head; then, evidently following out a thought which
Hilary had interrupted, he remarked:

"The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value. I have not as
yet succeeded in relating it to universal brotherhood."

"How is that, sir?"

"In so far," said Mr. Stone, "as it consists in fidelity to principle,
one might assume it worthy of conjunction. The difficulty arises when we
consider the nature of the principle .... There is a family of young
thrushes in the ga