followed. He overtook him walking forward feebly beneath the candelabra
of flowering chestnut-trees, with a hail-shower striking white on his
high shoulders; and, placing himself alongside, without greeting--for
forms were all one to Mr. Stone--he said:

"Surely you don't mean to bathe during a hail storm, sir! Make an
exception this once. You're not looking quite yourself."

Mr. Stone shook his head; then, evidently following out a thought which
Hilary had interrupted, he remarked:

"The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value. I have not as
yet succeeded in relating it to universal brotherhood."

"How is that, sir?"

"In so far," said Mr. Stone, "as it consists in fidelity to principle,
one might assume it worthy of conjunction. The difficulty arises when
we consider the nature of the principle .... There is a family of young
thrushes in the garden. If one of them finds a worm, I notice that his
devotion to that principle of self-preservation which prevails in all
low forms of life forbids his sharing it with any of the other little
thrushes."

Mr. Stone had fixed his eyes on distance.

"So it is, I fear," he said, "with 'honour.' In those days men looked on
women as thrushes look on worms."

He paused, evidently searching for a word; and Hilary, with a faint
smile, said:

"And how did women look on men, sir?"

Mr. Stone observed him with surprise. "I did not perceive that it was
you," he said. "I have to avoid brain action before bathing."

They had crossed the road dividing the Gardens from the Park, and,
seeing that Mr. Stone had already seen the water where he was about to
bathe, and would now see nothing else, Hilary stopped beside a little
lonely birch-tree. This wild, small, graceful visitor, who had long
bathed in winter, was already draping her bare limbs in a scarf of
green. Hilary leaned against her cool, pearly body. Below were the
chilly waters, now grey, now starch-blue, and the pale forms of fifteen
or twenty bathers. While he stood shivering in the frozen wind, the
sun, bursting through the hail-cloud, burned his cheeks and hands. And
suddenly he heard, clear, but far off, the sound which, of all others,
stirs the hearts of men: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

Four times over came the unexpected call. Whence had that ill-advised,
indelicate grey bird flown into this great haunt of men and shadows? Why
had it come with its arrowy flight and mocking cry to pierce the heart
and set it aching