little garden; scent, but no strong air blown across golden lakes of
buttercups, from seas of springing clover, or the wind-silver of young
wheat; music, but no full choir of sound, no hum. Like the face and
figure of its master, so was this little garden, whose sundial the
sun seldom reached-refined, self-conscious, introspective, obviously a
creature of the town. At that moment, however, Hilary was not looking
quite himself; his face was flushed, his eyes angry, almost as if he had
been a man of action.

The voice of Mr. Stone was still audible, fitfully quavering out into
the air, and the old man himself could now and then be seen holding up
his manuscript, his profile clear-cut against the darkness of the room.
A sentence travelled out across the garden:

"'Amidst the tur-bu-lent dis-cov-eries of those days, which, like
cross-currented and multibillowed seas, lapped and hollowed every rock
'"

A motor-car dashing past drowned the rest, and when the voice rose again
it was evidently dictating another paragraph.

"'In those places, in those streets, the shadows swarmed, whispering
and droning like a hive of dying bees, who, their honey eaten, wander
through the winter day seeking flowers that are frozen and dead."'

A great bee which had been busy with the lilac began to circle, booming,
round his hair. Suddenly Hilary saw Mr. Stone raise both his arms.

"'In huge congeries, crowded, devoid of light and air, they were
assembled, these bloodless imprints from forms of higher caste. They