“It is not tenable,” said Mr. Stone. “But it is restful. The wind is everywhere and nowhere, and nothing can be hidden from it. When I have missed that little girl, I have tried, in a sense, to become the wind; but I have found it difficult.” His eyes left Hilary's face, whose mournful smile he had not noticed, and fixed themselves on the bright fire. “'In those days,”' he said, “'men's relation to the eternal airs was the relation of a billion little separate draughts blowing against the south-west wind. They did not wish to merge themselves in that soft, moon-uttered sigh, but blew in its face through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne away on the pellucid journey, whistling out their protests.'” He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at Hilary. He seemed about to ask for something, but checked himself. “If I practise hard,” he murmured, “I shall master it.” Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil. In bending, he saw that Mr. Stone's eyes were dim with moisture. This sight affected him so that he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad. When Mr. Stone had finished, he sat back in his chair with closed eyes. A supreme silence reigned in the bare room above those two men of different generations and of such strange dissimilarity of character. Hilary broke that silence. “I heard the cuckoo sing to-day,” he said, almost in a whisper, lest Mr. Stone should be asleep. “The cuckoo,” replied Mr. Stone, “has no sense of brotherhood.” “I forgive him-for his song,” murmured Hilary. “His song,” said Mr. Stone, “is alluring; it excites the sexual instinct.” Then to himself he added: “She has not come, as yet!” Even as he spoke there was heard by Hilary a faint tapping on the door. He rose and opened it. The little model stood outside. CHAPTER XXIX RETURN OF THE LITTLE MODEL