In their favourite firmaments the stars of crocuses and daffodils were shining. Almost every tree had its pigeon cooing, every bush its blackbird in full song. And on the paths were babies in perambulators. These were their happy hunting-grounds, and here they came each day to watch from a safe distance the little dirty girls sitting on the grass nursing little dirty boys, to listen to the ceaseless chatter of these common urchins, and learn to deal with the great problem of the lowest classes. And babies sat in their perambulators, thinking and sucking india-rubber tubes. Dogs went before them, and nursemaids followed after. The spirit of colour was flying in the distant trees, swathing them with brownish-purple haze; the sky was saffroned by dying sunlight. It was such a day as brings a longing to the heart, like that which the moon brings to the hearts of children. Mr. Stone and Hilary sat down in the Broad Walk. “Elm-trees!” said Mr. Stone. “It is not known when they assumed their present shape. They have one universal soul. It is the same with man.” He ceased, and Hilary looked round uneasily. They were alone on the bench. Mr. Stone's voice rose again. “Their form and balance is their single soul; they have preserved it from century to century. This is all they live for. In those days”--his voice sank; he had plainly forgotten that he was not alone--“when men had no universal conceptions, they would have done well to look at the trees. Instead of fostering a number of little souls on the pabulum of varying theories of future life, they should have been concerned to improve their present shapes, and thus to dignify man's single soul.” “Elms were always considered dangerous trees, I believe,” said Hilary. Mr. Stone turned, and, seeing his son-in-law beside him, asked: “You spoke to me, I think?” “Yes, sir.” Mr. Stone said wistfully: “Shall we walk?” They rose from the bench and walked on.... The explanation of the little model's absence was thus stated by herself to Hilary: “I had an appointment.” “More work?” “A friend of Mr. French.” “Yes--who?” “Mr. Lennard. He's a sculptor; he's got a studio in Chelsea. He wants me to pose to him.” “Ah!” She stole a glance at Hilary, and hung her head. Hilary turned to the window. “You know what posing to a sculptor means, of course?” The little model's voice sounded behind him, matter-of-fact as ever: “He said I was just the figure he was looking for.” Hilary continued to stare through the window. “I thought you didn't mean to begin standing for the nude.” “I don't want to stay poor always.” Hilary turned round at the strange tone of these unexpected words. The girl was in a streak of sunlight; her pale cheeks flushed; her pale, half-opened lips red; her eyes, in their setting of short black lashes, wide and mutinous; her young round bosom heaving as if she had been running. “I don't want to go on copying books all my life.” “Oh, very well.”