Sabathier none the less, and in spite of his unintelligible literariness, did begin to take shape and consistency. The man himself, breathing, and thinking, began to live for Lawford even in those few half-articulate pages, though not in quite so formidable a fashion as Mr Bethany had summed him up. But as the west began to lighten with the declining sun, the same old disquietude, the same old friendless and foreboding ennui stole over Lawford’s solitude once more. He shut his books, placed a candlestick and two boxes of matches on the hall table, lit a bead of gas, and went out into the rainy-sweet streets again. At a mean little barber’s with a pole above his lettered door he went in to be shaved. And a few steps further on he sat down at the crumb-littered counter of a little baker’s shop to have some tea. It pleased him almost to childishness to find how easily he could listen and even talk to the oiled and crimpy little barber, and to the pretty, consumptive-looking, print-dressed baker’s wife. Whatever his face might now be conniving at, the Arthur Lawford of last week could never have hob-nobbed so affably with his social ‘inferiors.’ For no reason in the world, unless to spend a moment or two longer in the friendly baker’s shop, he bought six-penny-worth of cakes. He watched them as they were deposited one by one in the bag, and even asked for one sort to be exchanged for another, flushing a little at the pretty compliment he had ventured on. He climbed out of the shop, and paused on the wooden doorstep. ‘Do you happen to know Mr Herbert Herbert’s?’ he said. The baker’s wife glanced up at him with clear, reflective eyes. ‘Mr Herbert’s?—that must be some little way off, sir. I don’t know any such name, and I know most, just round about like.’ ‘Well, yes, it is,’ said Lawford, rather foolishly; ‘I hardly know why I asked. It’s past the churchyard at Widderstone.’ ‘Oh yes, sir,’ she encouraged him. ‘A big, wooden-looking house.’ ‘Really, sir. Wooden?’ Lawford looked into her face, but could find nothing more to say, so he smiled again rather absently, and ascended into the street. He sat down outside the churchyard gate on the very bank where he had in the sourness of the nettles first opened Sabathier’s Memoirs. The world lay still beneath the pale sky. Presently the little fat rector walked up the hill, his wrists still showing beneath his sleeves. Lawford meditatively watched him pass by. A small boy with a switch, a tiny nose, and a swinging gallipot, his cheeks lit with the sunset, followed soon after. Lawford beckoned him with his finger and held out the bag of tarts. He watched him, half incredulous of his prize, and with many a cautious look over his shoulder, pass out of sight. For a long while he sat alone, only the evening birds singing out of the greenness and silence of the churchyard. What a haunting inescapable riddle life was.