med that he was
alone there with only Newsome by his side and the dog sleeping at his
feet. The tobacco smoke hung in grey-blue wreaths above his head and
the gold light of the two lamps shone mistily, without shape or form.
Perhaps it was really a dream. The old man with the white beard and
the blind eye was sleeping, his head on his breast. A man with a
vacant expression was telling a tale, heavily, slowly, gazing at the
fire. The others were not listening--or at any rate not obviously so.
They, too, gazed at the fire--it had, as it were, become personal and
mesmerised the room. Perhaps it was a dream. He would wake and find
himself at "The Flutes." There would be Clare and Garrett and--Robin!
He would put all that away now; he would forget it for a moment, at
least. He had failed them; they had not wanted him and had told him
so,--but here they had known him and loved him; they had welcomed him
back as though there had been no intervening space of years. They at
least had known what life was. They had not played with it, like those
others. They had not surrounded themselves with barricades of
artificiality, and glanced through distorting mirrors at their own
exaggerated reflection; they had seen life simply, fearlessly,
accepting their peril like men and enjoying their fate with the
greatness of soul that simplicity had given them. They were not like
those others; those on the hill had invaded the sea with noisy clamour,
had greeted her familiarly and offered her bathing-machines and
boarding-houses; these others had reverenced her and learnt to know
her, alone on the downs in the first grey of the dawn, or secretly,
when the breakers had rolled in over the sand, carrying with them the
red and gold of some gorgeous sunset.

He contrasted them in his mind--the Trojans and the Greeks. He turned
round a little in his seat and listened to the story: "It were a man--a
strange man with horns and hoofs, so he said--and a merry, deceiving
eye; but he couldn't see him clear because of the mist that hung there,
with the moon pushing through like a candle, he said. The man was
laughing to himself and playing with leaves that danced at his feet
under the wind. It can't have been far from the town, because Joe
heard St. Elmo's bell ringin' and he could hear the sea quite plain.
He ..."

The voice seemed to trail off again into the distance; Harry's thoughts
were with his future. What was he to do? It seemed to