but lately had crossed the battlefields of southern
Europe, glided around Hatton Towers, describing mystic figures in the
air, whilst the high feeble chirping of the younger generation sounded
from the nests beneath the eaves. Amid the climbing roses bees were
busy, their communal labours an object-lesson for self-seeking man; and
almost at Mario's feet a company of ants swarmed over the yet writhing
body of an unfortunate caterpillar, who had dropped from an apple-tree
to fall a prey to that savage natural law of death to the weak. The
harsh voice of a sentinel crow spoke from a neighbouring cornfield, and
a cloud of dusky marauders took the air instantly, and before the sharp
crack of the farmer's fowling-piece came to confirm the warning. In the
hush of noon the tones of some haymakers at their patriarchal labours in
a meadow beyond the stream were clearly audible--and the atmosphere
constantly vibrated with remote booming of guns on the Western front.

Paul Mario was sufficiently distinguished in appearance to have been a
person of no importance. His virile, curling black hair had the
raven's-wing sheen betraying remote Italian forebears, and for that
matter there was in his entire cast of countenance and the poise of his
fine head something statuesquely Roman, Southern, exotic. His large but
deep-set eyes were of so dark a blue as very generally to pass for
"black"; and whilst in some moods they were soft and dreamy, in others,
notably in moments of enthusiasm, they burnt darkly fierce in his pale
olive face. In profile there was a certain resemblance to the Vatican
head of Julius Caesar, save for the mouth, which had more gentle curves,
and which was not unlike that of Dante; but seen full-face, and allowing
for the fact that Paul Mario was clean-shaven, the likeness of feature
to the traditional Christ was startling. This resemblance is equally
notable in the face of Shakespeare.

Rather above medium height, well but slightly proportioned, the uneasy
spirit of the man ever looking out of those arresting eyes so wholly
dominated him as to create a false impression of fragility, of a casket
too frail to confine the burning, eager soul within. His emotions were
dynamic, and in his every mannerism there was distinction. The vein of
femininity which is found in all creative artists betrayed itself in one
item of Mario's attire: a white French knot, which slightly overlay the
lapels of his well-worn Norfolk jacket.