on them; and, somehow or other, loveliness is infernally sad. Yes, the
chimneys and the coast-guard stations and the little bays with the waves
breaking unseen by any one make one remember the overpowering sorrow.
And what can this sorrow be?

It is brewed by the earth itself. It comes from the houses on the coast.
We start transparent, and then the cloud thickens. All history backs our
pane of glass. To escape is vain.

But whether this is the right interpretation of Jacob's gloom as he sat
naked, in the sun, looking at the Land's End, it is impossible to say;
for he never spoke a word. Timmy sometimes wondered (only for a second)
whether his people bothered him.... No matter. There are things that
can't be said. Let's shake it off. Let's dry ourselves, and take up the
first thing that comes handy.... Timmy Durrant's notebook of scientific
observations.

"Now..." said Jacob.

It is a tremendous argument.

Some people can follow every step of the way, and even take a little
one, six inches long, by themselves at the end; others remain observant
of the external signs.

The eyes fix themselves upon the poker; the right hand takes the poker
and lifts it; turns it slowly round, and then, very accurately, replaces
it. The left hand, which lies on the knee, plays some stately but
intermittent piece of march music. A deep breath is taken; but allowed
to evaporate unused. The cat marches across the hearth-rug. No one