he was associated with the peacock plumage of the world of fashion, with
the flare of candles, the hot breath of gamesters, the ring of gold upon
the tables; that one clique had tales to tell of a magnanimous spirit and
a generous hand, while yet another grew red at mention of his name, and
put to his credit much that was not creditable, was perhaps not strange.
He, like his neighbors, had many selves, and each in its turn--the
scholar, the man of pleasure, the indolent, kindly, reflective self, the
self of pride and cool assurance and stubborn will--took its place behind
the mask, and went through its allotted part. His self of all selves, the
quiet, remote, crowned, and inscrutable _I_, sat apart, alike curious and
indifferent, watched the others, and knew how little worth the while was
the stir in the ant-hill.

But on a May Day, in the sunshine and the blossoming woods and the company
of Mistress Evelyn Byrd, it seemed, for the moment, worth the while. At
his invitation she had taken his hand and descended from the coach. The
great, painted thing moved slowly forward, bearing the unconscious
Colonel, and the two pedestrians walked behind it: he with his horse's
reins over his arm and his hat in his hand; she lifting her silken skirts
from contact with the ground, and looking, not at her companion, but at
the greening boughs, and at the sunlight striking upon smooth, pale beech
trunks and the leaf-strewn earth beneath. Out of the woods came a sudden
medley of bird notes, clear, sweet, and inexpressibly joyous.

"That is a mockingbird," said Haward. "I once heard one of a moonlight
night, beside a still water"--

He broke off, and they listened in silence. The bird flew away, and they
came to a brook traversing the road, and flowing in wide meanders through
the forest. There were stepping-stones, and Haward, crossing first, turned