experience. The little almost colourless fires remained so
changeless. But still, even when at last they had actually
vanished into the recesses of that quiet habitation, Lawford did
not rise from his knees. An utterly unreasonable feeling of
dismay, a sudden weakness and weariness had come over him.

'What is the good of it all?' he asked himself inconsequently--
this monotonous, restless, stupid life to which he was soon to be
returning, and for good. He began to realize how ludicrous a
spectacle he must be, kneeling here amid the weeds and grass
beneath the solemn cypresses. 'Well, you can't have everything,'
seemed loosely to express his disquiet.

He stared vacantly at the green and fretted gravestone, dimly
aware that his heart was beating with an unusual effort. He felt
ill and weak. He leant his hand on the stone and lifted himself
on to the low wooden seat nearby. He drew off his glove and
thrust his bare hand under his waistcoat, with his mouth a little
ajar, and his eyes fixed on the dark square turret, its bell
sharply defined against the evening sky.

'Dead!' a bitter inward voice seemed to break into speech; 'Dead!'
The viewless air seemed to be flocking with hidden listeners. The
very clearness and the crystal silence were their ambush. He alone
seemed to be the target of cold and hostile scrutiny. There was
not a breath to breathe in this crisp, pale sunshine. It was all
too rare, too thin. The shadows lay like wings everlastingly
folded. The robin that had been his only living witness lifted
its throat, and broke, as if from the uttermost outskirts of
reality, into its shrill, passionless song. Lawford moved heavy