The laborer moved his head, as though he would have spoken, but no words
came.

"Don't do anything, Bob. We'll see about that."

"Evenin', Mr. Derek. Evenin', Miss Sheila," and the laborer moved on.

The two at the wicket gate also turned away. A black-haired woman
dressed in blue came to the wicket gate in their place. There seemed no
purpose in her standing there; it was perhaps an evening custom, some
ceremony such as Moslems observe at the muezzin-call. And any one who
saw her would have wondered what on earth she might be seeing, gazing
out with her dark glowing eyes above the white, grass-bordered roads
stretching empty this way and that between the elm-trees and green
fields; while the blackbirds and thrushes shouted out their hearts,
calling all to witness how hopeful and young was life in this English
countryside....




CHAPTER I


Mayday afternoon in Oxford Street, and Felix Freeland, a little late,
on his way from Hampstead to his brother John's house in Porchester
Gardens. Felix Freeland, author, wearing the very first gray top hat of
the season. A compromise, that--like many other things in his life
and works--between individuality and the accepted view of things,
aestheticism and fashion, the critical sense and authority. After the