en thought of that first
stroll with Robin. They would discuss the changes since Harry's day;
Robin would point out the new points of interest, and, perhaps,
introduce him to some of his friends--it had been a favourite picture
of his during some of those lonely days in New Zealand. And now
Robin's aunt and college friend were to come before his father--it was
rather hard.

But, then, on second thoughts, how unreasonable it was of him to expect
to take up Robin's time like that. He must fall into the ways of the
house, quietly, unobtrusively, with none of that jolting of other
people's habits and regular customs; it had been thoughtless, of him
and ridiculous. He must be more careful.

Breakfast ended, he found himself alone. Robin left the room with the
preoccupied air of a man of fifty; the difficulty of choosing between
Jefferies' "Story of my Heart" and Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," if
there wasn't room in the box for both, was terrible! Of course Randal
was coming himself in a few days, and it would have been simpler to let
him choose for himself; but he had particularly asked for them to be
sent by the fourth, and to-day was the third. Robin had quite
forgotten his father.

Harry was alone. From the garden came the sound of doves, and, through
the window that overlooked the lawn, the sun shone into the room.
Harry lit a cigarette and went out. The garden was changed; there was
a feeling of order and authority about it that it had never had before.
Not a weed was to be seen on the paths: flowers stretched in perfect
order and discipline; colours in harmony, shapes and patterns of a
tutored symmetry--it was the perfection of a modern gardener's art. He
passed gardeners, grave, serious men with eyes intent on their work,
and he remembered the strange old man who had watched over the garden
when he had been a boy; an old man with a wild ragged beard and a
skinny hand like the Ancient Mariner's. The garden had not prospered
under his care--it had been wild, undisciplined, tangled; but he had
been a teller of wonderful tales, a seer of visions--it was to him that
Harry had owed all the intimate knowledge of Cornish lore and mystery
that he possessed.

The gardeners that were there now were probably not Cornishmen at
all--strangers, Londoners perhaps. They could watch that wonderful,
ever-changing view of sea and cliff and moor without any beating of the
heart; to them the crooked, dusky windings of