Morgan; but the father would not say one word about a horse or a race, unless it was a classical or curious one belonging to the past. CHAPTER III THE WILD SWANS One day as I was passing the library door with a pair of swan’s wings belonging to Philip, Mr Morgan stepped out. The look which he gave to the wings and to me compelled me to stop, and he said: “You have a pair of wild swans there, Arthur.” I said I had. “Swan’s wings,” he repeated. “Swan’s wings;” and as he uttered the words his body relaxed more than ordinary, until the middle of his back was supported against the wall, his feet and face stuck out towards me. “Did you know,” said he, “that some women had swan’s wings with which to fly?” Now I had heard of swan maidens, but he distinctly said “women,” and the tone of his voice made me feel that he was not referring to the flimsy, incredible creatures of fairy tales, but to women of flesh and blood, of human stature and nature, such women as might come into the library and stand by Mr Morgan’s fire--only, so far as I knew, no women ever did. So I said “No.” “They have,” said he, “or they had in the young days of Elias Griffiths, who was an old man when I was a lad.” Here he sighed and paused, but apologised, though not exactly to me, by saying: “But that”--meaning, I suppose, the sigh--“is neither here nor there. Besides, I must not trespass in Mr Stodham’s province.” For Mr Stodham was then passing, and I made way for him. Mr Morgan continued: “It was on a Thursday....” Now I held Mr Morgan in great respect, but the mention of Thursday at the opening of a story about swan maidens was too much for me. “Why Thursday?” I asked. “I agree with the boy,” remarked Mr Stodham, leaving us and the talk of swan maidens and Thursday. Thursday was a poor sort of a day. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, were all noticeable days in some way, though not equally likeable. Friday, too, as, ushering in Saturday and the end of the week, had some merit. Wednesday, again, was a half holiday. But least of all was to be said for Thursday. Mr Morgan’s answer was: “I said it was on a Thursday, because it was on a Thursday and not on any other day. I am sorry to see that the indolent spirit of criticism has resorted to you. Pluck it out, my boy.... Give me those wings.... They are beautiful: I expect the ferryman shot the swans in the estuary at Abercorran.... However, they are not large enough....” He was looking carefully at the wings, thinking things which he could not say to me, and I said nothing. Then, handing me back the wings, he went on: