and made my way downstairs."

"It's a wonder Boxer didn't bit you; he sleeps loose in the hall," she
said.

"On the contrary. The dog came out with me. I hope," he added, "the
noise didn't disturb you, though it's rather late to say so. I feel
quite guilty." His white teeth showed in the dusk as he smiled. A smell
of earth and flowers stole in through the window on a breath of
wandering air.

Mrs. Bittacy said nothing at the moment. "We both sleep like tops," put
in her husband, laughing. "You're a courageous man, though, Sanderson,
and, by Jove, the picture justifies you. Few artist would have taken so
much trouble, though I read once that Holman Hunt, Rossetti, or some one
of that lot, painted all night in his orchard to get an effect of
moonlight that he wanted."

He chattered on. His wife was glad to hear his voice; it made her feel
more easy in her mind. But presently the other held the floor again, and
her thoughts grew darkened and afraid. Instinctively she feared the
influence on her husband. The mystery and wonder that lie in woods, in
forests, in great gatherings of trees everywhere, seemed so real and
present while he talked.

"The Night transfigures all things in a way," he was saying; "but
nothing so searchingly as trees. From behind a veil that sunlight hangs
before them in the day they emerge and show themselves. Even buildings
do that--in a measure--but trees particularly. In the daytime they
sleep; at night they wake, they manifest, turn active--live. You
remember," turning politely again in the direction of his hostess, "how
clearly Henley understood that?"

"That socialist person, you mean?" asked the lady. Her tone and accent
made the substantive sound criminal. It almost hissed, the way she
uttered it.

"The poet, yes," replied the artist tactfully, "the friend of Stevenson,
you remember, Stevenson who wrote those charming children's verses."

He quoted in a low voice the lines he meant. It was, for once, the time,
the place, and the setting all together. The words floated out across
the lawn towards the wall of blue darkness where the big Forest swept
the little garden with its league-long curve that was like the
shore-line of a sea. A wave of distant sound that was like surf
accompanied his voice, as though the wind was fain to listen too:

Not to the staring Day,
For all the importunate questionings he pursues
In his big, violent voice,
Shall those mild things of bulk and mul