It was the evening of May Day, and the spring had taken hold of me body
and soul. The sky was full of stars, and the garden of scents, and the
borders of wallflowers and sweet, sly pansies. All day there had been a
breeze, and all day slow masses of white clouds had been sailing across
the blue. Now it was so still, so motionless, so breathless, that it
seemed as though a quiet hand had been laid on the garden, soothing and
hushing it into silence.

The Man of Wrath sat at the foot of the verandah steps in that placid
after-dinner mood which suffers fools, if not gladly, at least
indulgently, and I stood in front of him, leaning against the sun-dial.

"Shall you take a book with you?" he asked.

"Yes, I shall," I replied, slightly nettled by his tone. "I am quite
ready to admit that though the fields and flowers are always ready to
teach, I am not always in the mood to learn, and sometimes my eyes are
incapable of seeing things that at other times are quite plain."

"And then you read?"

"And then I read. Well, dear Sage, what of that?"

But he smoked in silence, and seemed suddenly absorbed by the stars.

"See," he said, after a pause, during which I stood looking at him and
wishing he would use longer sentences, and he looked at the sky and did
not think about me at all, "see how bright the stars are to-night.
Almost as though it might freeze."