audience, he grew eloquent over his lonely wanderings the length and
breadth of the land; over the joy of country things, the sweetness
of the fields, the wayside flowers, the vaulted highways in the
leafy summer, the quiet, sleepy towns, the fragrant villages, the
peace and cleanness of the open air.

The night had fallen, and in the cleared sky the stars shone bright.
Paul, his head against the lintel of the van door, looked up at
them, enthralled by the talk of Barney Bill. The vagabond merchant
had the slight drawling inflection of the Home Counties, which gave
a soothing effect to a naturally soft voice. To Paul it was the
pipes of Pan.

"It mightn't suit everybody," said Barney Bill philosophically.
"Some folks prefer gas to laylock. I don't say that they're wrong.
But I likes laylock."

"What's laylock?" asked Paul.

His friend explained. No lilac bloomed in the blighted Springs of
Bludston.

"Does it smell sweet?"

"Yuss. So does the may and the syringa and the new-mown hay and the
seaweed. Never smelt any of 'em?"

"No," sighed Paul, sensuously conscious of new and vague horizons.
"I once smelled summat sweet," he said dreamily. "It wur a lady."