The two men stood there silently for some minutes; the voice died away and the noise of the fair was softer and less discordant; past them fluttered two white moths, the whirr of their wings, the heavy, clumsy blundering against Tony’s coat, and then again the silence. “I heard it last year, that song,” Maradick repeated; he puffed at his cigar, and it gleamed for a moment as some great red star flung into the sky a rival to the myriads above and around it. “It’s funny how things like that stick in your brain—they are more important in a way than the bigger things.” “Perhaps they are the bigger things,” said Tony. “Perhaps,” said Maradick. He fell into silence again. He did not really want to talk, and he wondered why this young fellow was so persistent. He was never a talking man at any time, and to-night at any rate he would prefer to be left alone. But after all, the young fellow couldn’t know that, and he had offered to go. He could not think connectedly about anything; he could only remember that he had been rude to his wife at dinner. No gentleman would have said the things that he had said. He did not remember what he had said, but it had been very rude; it was as though he had struck his wife in the face. “I say,” he said, “it’s time chaps of your age were in bed. Don’t believe in staying up late.” He spoke gruffly, and looked over the wall on to the whirling lights of the merry-go-round in the market-place. “You said, you know,” said Tony, “that you wanted company; but, of course——” He moved from the wall. “Oh! stay if you like. Young chaps never will go to bed. If they only knew what they were laying in store for themselves they’d be a bit more careful. When you get to be an old buffer as I am——” “Old!” Tony laughed. “Why, you’re not old.” “Aren’t I? Turned forty, anyhow.” “Why, you’re one of the strongest-looking men I’ve ever seen.” Tony’s voice was a note of intense admiration. Maradick laughed grimly. “It isn’t your physical strength that counts, it’s the point of view—the way you look at things and the way people look at you.” The desire to talk grew with him; he didn’t want to think, he couldn’t sleep—why not talk? “But forty anyhow,” said Tony, “isn’t old. Nobody thinks you’re old at forty.” “Oh, don’t they? Wait till you are, you’ll know.” “Well, Balzac——” “Oh, damn your books! what do they know about it? Everyone takes things from books nowadays instead of getting it first hand. People stick themselves indoors and read a novel or two and think they know life—such rot!” Tony laughed. “I say,” he said, “you don’t think like that always, I know—it’s only just for an argument.” Maradick suddenly twisted round and faced Tony. He put his hand on his shoulder. “I say, kid,” he said, “go to bed. It doesn’t do a chap of your age any good to talk to a pessimistic old buffer like myself. I’ll only growl and you won’t be the better for it. Go to bed!” Tony looked up at him without moving.