It was at this moment, when the heads of the dog, the bee, Tod, Biddy, Susie, and Billy might have been contained within a noose three feet in diameter, that Felix dismounted from Stanley's car and, coming from the cottage, caught sight of that little idyll under the dappled sunlight, green, and blossom. It was something from the core of life, out of the heartbeat of things—like a rare picture or song, the revelation of the childlike wonder and delight, to which all other things are but the supernumerary casings—a little pool of simplicity into which fever and yearning sank and were for a moment drowned. And quite possibly he would have gone away without disturbing them if the dog had not growled and wagged his tail. But when the children had been sent down into the field he experienced the usual difficulty in commencing a talk with Tod. How far was his big brother within reach of mere unphilosophic statements; how far was he going to attend to facts? “We came back yesterday,” he began; “Nedda and I. You know all about Derek and Nedda, I suppose?” Tod nodded. “What do you think of it?” “He's a good chap.” “Yes,” murmured Felix, “but a firebrand. This business at Malloring's—what's it going to lead to, Tod? We must look out, old man. Couldn't you send Derek and Sheila abroad for a bit?” “Wouldn't go.” “But, after all, they're dependent on you.” “Don't say that to them; I should never see them again.” Felix, who felt the instinctive wisdom of that remark, answered helplessly: “What's to be done, then?” “Sit tight.” And Tod's hand came down on Felix's shoulder. “But suppose they get into real trouble? Stanley and John don't like it; and there's Mother.” And Felix added, with sudden heat, “Besides, I can't stand Nedda being made anxious like this.” Tod removed his hand. Felix would have given a good deal to have been able to see into the brain behind the frowning stare of those blue eyes. “Can't help by worrying. What must be, will. Look at the birds!” The remark from any other man would have irritated Felix profoundly; coming from Tod, it seemed the unconscious expression of a really felt philosophy. And, after all, was he not right? What was this life they all lived but a ceaseless worrying over what was to come? Was not all man's unhappiness caused by nervous anticipations of the future? Was not that the disease, and the misfortune, of the age; perhaps of all the countless ages man had lived through?