“The proud fool!—look at it! Perched on an angel, too, as if it were a pedestal for vanity. That’s the soul of a woman—or it’s the devil.” He was silent for a time, and we watched the great bird moving uneasily before us in the twilight. “That’s the very soul of a lady,” he said, “the very, very soul. Damn the thing, to perch on that old angel. I should like to wring its neck.” Again the bird screamed, and shifted awkwardly on its legs; it seemed to stretch its beak at us in derision. Annable picked up a piece of sod and flung it at the bird, saying: “Get out, you screeching devil! God!” he laughed. “There must be plenty of hearts twisting under here,”—and he stamped on a grave, “when they hear that row.” He kicked another sod from a grave and threw at the big bird. The peacock flapped away, over the tombs, down the terraces. “Just look!” he said, “the miserable brute has dirtied that angel. A woman to the end, I tell you, all vanity and screech and defilement.” He sat down on a vault and lit his pipe. But before he had smoked two minutes, it was out again. I had not seen him in a state of perturbation before. “The church,” said I, “is rotten. I suppose they’ll stand all over the country like this, soon—with peacocks trailing the graveyards.” “Ay,” he muttered, taking no notice of me. “This stone is cold,” I said, rising. He got up too, and stretched his arms as if he were tired. It was quite dark, save for the waxing moon which leaned over the east. “It is a very fine night,” I said. “Don’t you notice a smell of violets?” “Ay! The moon looks like a woman with child. I wonder what Time’s got in her belly.” “You?” I said. “You don’t expect anything exciting do you?” “Exciting!—No—about as exciting as this rotten old place—just rot off—Oh, my God!—I’m like a good house, built and finished, and left to tumble down again with nobody to live in it.” “Why—what’s up—really?” He laughed bitterly, saying, “Come and sit down.” He led me off to a seat by the north door, between two pews, very black and silent. There we sat, he putting his gun carefully beside him. He remained perfectly still, thinking. “Whot’s up?” he said at last, “Why—I’ll tell you. I went to Cambridge—my father was a big cattle dealer—he died bankrupt while I was in college, and I never took my degree. They persuaded me to be a parson, and a parson I was. I went a curate to a little place in Leicestershire—a bonnie place with not many people, and a fine old church, and a great rich parsonage. I hadn’t overmuch to do, and the rector—he was the son of an Earl—was generous. He lent me a horse and would have me hunt like the rest. I always think of that place with a smell of honeysuckle while the grass is wet in the morning. It was fine, and I enjoyed myself, and did the parish work all right. I believe I was pretty good.