"

She surprised Heyst by saying dreamily:

"Well--and what about you?"

"I? I date later--much later. I can't call myself a child, but I am so
recent that I may call myself a man of the last hour--or is it the hour
before last? I have been out of it so long that I am not certain how far
the hands of the clock have moved since--since--"

He glanced at the portrait of his father, exactly above the head of the
girl, as if it were ignoring her in its painted austerity of feeling. He
did not finish the sentence; but he did not remain silent for long.

"Only what must be avoided are fallacious inferences, my dear
Lena--especially at this hour."

"Now you are making fun of me again," she said without looking up.

"Am I?" he cried. "Making fun? No, giving warning. Hang it all, whatever
truth people told you in the old days, there is also this one--that
sparrows do fall to the ground, that they are brought to the ground.
This is no vain assertion, but a fact. That's why"--again his
tone changed, while he picked up the table knife and let it fall
disdainfully--"that's why I wish these wretched round knives had some
edge on them. Absolute rubbish--neither edge, point, nor substance. I
believe one of these forks would make a better weapon at a pinch. But
can I go about with a fork in my pocket?" He gnashed his teeth with a
rage very real, and yet comic.

"There used to be a carver here, but it was broken and thrown away a
long time ago. Nothing much to carve here. It would have made a noble
weapon, no doubt; but--"

He stopped. The girl sat very quiet, with downcast eyes. As he kept
silence for some time, she looked up and said thoughtfully:

"Yes, a knife--it's a knife that you would want, wouldn't you, in case,
in case--"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"There must be a crowbar or two in the sheds; but I have given up all
the keys together. And then, do you see me walking about with a crowbar
in my hand? Ha, ha! And besides, that edifying sight alone might start
the trouble for all I know. In truth, why has it not started yet?"

"Perhaps they are afraid of you," she whispered, looking down again.

"By Jove, it looks like it," he assented meditatively. "They do seem to
hang back for some reason. Is that reason prudence, or downright fear,
or perhaps the leisurely method of certitude?"

Out in the black night, not very far from the bungalow, resounded a loud
and prolonged whistle. Lena's hands grasped the sides of t