turn round and look at the large, luxuriant parallelogram of the
garden and the long, low rectangular building beyond. There was
not a soul or a stir of life within sight. And he had a quite
meaningless sensation, as if there never really had been any one
else there except he since the foundation of the world.

Stiffening in himself the masculine but mirthless courage of the
atheist, he drew a little nearer to the wall and, catching the
man at a slightly different angle of the evening light, could see
his face and figure quite plain. Two facts about him stood out in
the picked colours of some piratical schoolboy's story. The first
was that his lean brown body was bare to the belt of his loose
white trousers; the other that through hygiene, affectation, or
whatever other cause, he had a scarlet handkerchief tied tightly
but somewhat aslant across his brow. After these two facts had
become emphatic, others appeared sufficiently important. One was
that under the scarlet rag the hair was plentiful, but white as
with the last snows of mortality. Another was that under the mop
of white and senile hair the face was strong, handsome, and
smiling, with a well-cut profile and a long cloven chin. The
length of this lower part of the face and the strange cleft in it
(which gave the man, in quite another sense from the common one,
a double chin) faintly spoilt the claim of the face to absolute
regularity, but it greatly assisted it in wearing the expression
of half-smiling and half-sneering arrogance with which it was
staring at all the stones, all the flowers, but especially at the
solitary man.

"What do you want?" shouted Turnbull.