Colour suddenly faded out of the light streaming between the branches. And depression, always lying in ambush of the novelty of his freedom, began like mist to rise above his restless thoughts. It was all so devilish empty—this raft of the world floating under evening’s shadow. How many sermons had he listened to, enriched with the simile of the ocean of life. Here they were, come home to roost. He had fallen asleep, ineffectual sailor that he was, and a thief out of the cloudy deep had stolen oar and sail and compass, leaving him adrift amid the riding of the waves. ‘Are they worth, do you think, quite a penny?’ suddenly inquired a quiet voice in the silence. He looked up into the almost colourless face, into the grey eyes beneath their clear narrow brows. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘what a curious thing life is, and wondering—’ ‘The first half is well worth the penny—its originality! I can’t afford twopence. So you must _give_ me what you were wondering.’ Lawford gazed rather blankly across the twilight fields. ‘I was wondering,’ he said with an oddly naive candour, ‘how long it took one to sink.’ ‘They say, you know,’ Grisel replied solemnly, ‘drowned sailors float midway, suffering their sea change; purgatory. But what a splendid pennyworth. All pure philosophy!’ ‘“Philosophy!”’ said Lawford; ‘I am a perfect fool. Has your brother told you about me?’ She glanced at him quickly. ‘We had a talk.’ ‘Then you do know—?’ He stopped dead, and turned to her. ‘You really realise it, looking at me now?’ ‘I realise,’ she said gravely, ‘that you look even a little more pale and haggard than when I saw you first the other night. We both, my brother and I, you know, thought for certain you’d come yesterday. In fact, I went into the Widderstone in the evening to look for you, knowing your nocturnal habits....’ She glanced again at him with a kind of shy anxiety. ‘Why—why is your brother so—why does he let me bore him so horribly?’ ‘Does he? He’s tremendously interested; but then, he’s pretty easily interested when he’s interested at all. If he can possibly twist anything into the slightest show of a mystery, he will. But, of course, you won’t, you can’t, take all he says seriously. The tiniest pinch of salt, you know. He’s an absolute fanatic at talking in the air. Besides, it doesn’t really matter much.’ ‘In the air?’ ‘I mean if once a theory gets into his head—the more far-fetched, so long as it’s original, the better—it flowers out into a positive miracle of incredibilities. And of course you can rout out evidence for anything under the sun from his dingy old folios. Why did he lend you that _particular_ book?’ ‘Didn’t he tell you that, then?’ ‘He said it was Sabathier.’ She seemed to think intensely for the merest fraction of a moment, and turned. ‘Honestly, though, I think he immensely exaggerated the likeness. As for...’