evidently the conversation begun with his host beneath the cedar. Mrs.
Bittacy, on her guard, listened--uneasily.

"For trees, you see, rather conceal themselves in daylight. They reveal
themselves fully only after sunset. I never _know_ a tree," he bowed
here slightly towards the lady as though to apologize for something he
felt she would not quite understand or like, "until I've seen it in the
night. Your cedar, for instance," looking towards her husband again so
that Mrs. Bittacy caught the gleaming of his turned eyes, "I failed with
badly at first, because I did it in the morning. You shall see to-morrow
what I mean--that first sketch is upstairs in my portfolio; it's quite
another tree to the one you bought. That view"--he leaned forward,
lowering his voice--"I caught one morning about two o'clock in very
faint moonlight and the stars. I saw the naked being of the thing--"

"You mean that you went out, Mr. Sanderson, at that hour?" the old lady
asked with astonishment and mild rebuke. She did not care particularly
for his choice of adjectives either.

"I fear it was rather a liberty to take in another's house, perhaps," he
answered courteously. "But, having chanced to wake, I saw the tree from
my window, 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