"You haven't bored me," Alexander said gruffly. "And you're wrong about Theresa." "I may be, but I just know I don't want her to see this. I'd rather have her hating it than liking it. It's only for the few, this is." "I had hoped to bring her here," the other said sadly. "Oh, well, I needn't come with you," Alexander said. * * * * * It was growing dark when they returned, and on the doorstep they found Clara waiting for them. "He's come back," she said. "He's gone to bed." "Where has he been?" "I haven't asked him. What does it matter? He's back again. Edward, I'm wondering if you'd go to Janet's for the night. I asked her if she'd have you. You wouldn't mind? You see, to-morrow--he mightn't like it. I told him you'd been here last night, and he took for granted you'd gone back to-day. And--he's not quite himself." "Mother, you cannot----" "Don't be silly, Alec. He understands." "Of course, of course. I'll go. If there were a train----" "There's not. Janet will be glad to have you--she said so--and she likes men about. I've put your things together." She thrust a parcel into his hands. "Alec will take you. Will you need a lantern? No? Good-night, then--good-night." CHAPTER VIII They passed behind the house and, taking a narrow pathway, skirted the hill. Their boots struck against loose stones and scattered them, and their going made a great noise in the gloom. All about were the dark forms of hills, and the lake lay like ink in the hollow of the land. The larches were sighing very gently--moved, it seemed, of their own will; for the wind did no more than breathe in sleep. "She's daft," said Alexander suddenly; and when he had no answer, he went on: "Do you not think she's daft yourself?" "I have never seen her." "It's my mother, I mean. Janet's not daft; she's queer." "Will you let me have your arm? It's getting dark, and my feet don't know the way like yours. I've not been round here before." "Her house is at the hill's foot, among larches." "More larches?" "Ay. Shoving you out like this!" Edward paused and, dropping his hand from the boy's arm, turned himself slowly round. "Beauty everywhere," he said. "Are there any wicked people in this place?" That was a false step. "There's one." "Don't"--he hesitated--"don't make two of it. Beauty and morality--are they separable? There's a question. I have theories----" His voice died away, and he felt that some vast hand had gathered up the sound and laid it by in the place where all men's thoughts and deeds are stored until the winds come and drop them, like seed, about the world. It died away, and they heard the mountain noises--sheep crying, water falling--rarified and faint. Alexander's voice, violent and shrill, shook the night's peace. "There is no God!" he cried. The man's lips twitched in a secret smile, but his heart had pity in it. "Yet you are always worshipping," he said.