by under the wall,
with the thudding and the creak of oars.

"So 'To-morrow we die'?" said Miltoun: "You mean, I suppose, that 'public
life' is the breath of my nostrils, and I must die, because I give it
up?"

Courtier nodded.

"Am I right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this
crusade?"

Courtier did not answer.

"And so," Miltoun went on, looking him through and through; "to-morrow is
to be your last day, too? Well, you're right to go. She is not an ugly
duckling, who can live out of the social pond; she'll always want her
native element. And now, we'll say goodbye! Whatever happens to us both,
I shall remember this evening." Smiling, he put out his hand 'Moriturus
te saluto.'

CHAPTER XXIII

Courtier sat in Hyde Park waiting for five o'clock. The day had
recovered somewhat from a grey morning, as though the glow of that long
hot summer were too burnt-in on the air to yield to the first assault.
The sun, piercing the crisped clouds, those breast feathers of heavenly
doves, darted its beams at the mellowed leaves, and showered to the
ground their delicate shadow stains. The first, too early, scent from
leaves about to fall, penetrated to the heart. And sorrowful sweet birds
were tuning their little autumn pipes, blowing into them fragments of
Spring odes to Liberty.

Courtier thought of Miltoun and his mistress. By what a strange fate had
those two been thrown together; to what end was their love coming? The
seeds of grief were already sown, what flowers of darkness, or of tumult
would come up? He saw her again as a little, grave, considering child,
with her soft eyes, set wide apart under the dark arched brows, and the
little tuck at the corner of her mouth that used to come when he teased
her. And to that gentle creature who would sooner die than force anyone
to anything, had been given this queer lover; this aristocrat by birth
and nature, with the dried fervent soul, whose every fibre had been bred
and trained in and to the service of Authority; this rejecter of the
Unity of Life; this worshipper of an old God! A God that stood, whip in
hand, driving men to obedience. A God that even now Courtier could
conjure up staring at him from the walls of his nursery. The God his own
father had believed in. A God of the Old Testament, knowing neither
sympathy nor understanding. Strange that He should be alive still; that
there should still be thousands who worshipped Him