Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgment. And at the same time felt that matters were progressing. Progressing, perhaps, a trifle _too_ quickly, and at a rate that, to a less alert intelligence than Mr. Bathurst’s, might prove extremely disconcerting. Under cover of a few casual and perfunctory remarks he studied Llewellyn carefully and at the same time reviewed the events of the morning. For Mr. Bathurst had been up betimes. The music of the Berkshire birds had been his first consciousness of this glorious morning. He had risen to the “Te Deum” of the bird-choir and had joined with them in a thanksgiving for “the immaculate hours”; and when he found himself downstairs his watch showed the time to be a few minutes past seven. He made his way into the garden and marveled at the magic of the morning. What was the geography of the library in relation to the garden? Passing through a charming rockery with a fountain plashing deliciously in the center of a clear-watered pool, he came on to a stretch of perfectly kept grass that stretched almost to the French doors of the library itself. Under the morning sun this patch of exquisite emerald seemed fit for the flying feet of angels. Anthony retraced his steps—he would leave the library question till he could get inside to have a look properly. He strolled through the rockery, then turned and came out on to the road. He would have a walk before breakfast, for a thought was beginning to take shape within his brain. He cut along briskly and soon discovered that he was descending the hill to Assynton village. At the foot of the hill on the fringe of Assynton itself, he stopped. It was an iron foundry that claimed his attention, for Mr. Bathurst had always been intrigued by the industry of the early morning. The clang of the hammers was as music to his ear. To him it represented one of the real essences of England—there were others—a barge moving steadily on a canal—the scraping of a bricklayer’s trowel—a fishing fleet standing in to the harbor heavy with the fruit of its toil—all of them tingling as it were—with the impetus of the newness of the morning. These things to Anthony Bathurst meant much. He listened as the clanging quivered incessantly on the almost virgin stillness of the June air. Suddenly he noticed a man signaling to him from the open door. Bathurst turned into the yard and approached him. A magnificent man, with a sweeping breadth of shoulder, came out of the foundry and stood waiting. His black eyes sparkled genially and he pulled at a bushy black beard as Anthony came up. He must have stood at least six feet two, and his leathern apron became him handsomely. He touched his forehead.