an old sundial. Blackbirds were holding evensong; the
late perfume of the lilac came stealing forth into air faintly smeeched
with chimney smoke. There was brightness, but no glory, in that little
garden; scent, but no strong air blown across golden lakes of buttercups,
from seas of springing clover, or the wind-silver of young wheat; music,
but no full choir of sound, no hum. Like the face and figure of its
master, so was this little garden, whose sundial the sun seldom
reached-refined, self-conscious, introspective, obviously a creature of
the town. At that moment, however, Hilary was not looking quite himself;
his face was flushed, his eyes angry, almost as if he had been a man of
action.

The voice of Mr. Stone was still audible, fitfully quavering out into the
air, and the old man himself could now and then be seen holding up his
manuscript, his profile clear-cut against the darkness of the room. A
sentence travelled out across the garden:

"'Amidst the tur-bu-lent dis-cov-eries of those days, which, like
cross-currented and multibillowed seas, lapped and hollowed every rock '"

A motor-car dashing past drowned the rest, and when the voice rose again
it was evidently dictating another paragraph.

"'In those places, in those streets, the shadows swarmed, whispering and
droning like a hive of dying bees, who, their honey eaten, wander through
the winter day seeking flowers that are frozen and dead."'

A great bee which had been busy with the lilac began to circle, booming,
round his hair. Suddenly Hilary saw Mr. Stone raise both his arms.

"'In huge congeries, crowded, devoid of light and air, they were
assembled, these bloodless imprints from forms of higher caste. They
lay, like the reflection of leaves which, fluttering free in the sweet
winds, let fall to the earth wan resemblances. Imponderous, dark ghosts,
wandering ones chained to the ground, they had no hope of any Lovely
City, nor knew whence they had come. Men cast them on the pavements and
marched on. They did not in Universal Brotherhood clasp their shadows to
sleep within their hearts--for the sun was not then at noon, when no man
has a shadow.'"

As those words of swan song died away he swayed and trembled, and
suddenly disappeared below the sight-line, as if he had sat down. The
little model took his place in the open window. She started at seeing
Hilary; then, motionless, stood gazing at him. Out of the gloom of the
opening her eye