draw fifteen thousand sixpences and shillings of a Saturday afternoon into a company’s cash box, and here he sat splitting his head over fewer sixpences and shillings than would fill a half-pint pot!  Jos, you ought in justice to have been Jose, with a thin red necktie down your breast (instead of a line of mud up your back), and embroidered breeches on those miraculous legs, and an income of a quarter of a million pesetas, and the languishing acquiescence of innumerable mantillas.  Every moment you were getting older and stiffer; every moment was bringing nearer the moment when young men would reply curtly to their doddering elders:  “Jos Myatt—­who was ’e?”

The putting away of the ledger, the ink, the pen and the money was as exasperating as their taking out had been.  Then Jos, always too large for the room, crossed the tiled floor and mended the fire.  A poker was more suited to his capacity than a pen.  He glanced about him, uncertain and anxious, and then crept to the door near the foot of the stairs and listened.  There was no sound; and that was curious.  The woman who was bringing into the world the hero’s child made no cry that reached us below.  Once or twice I had heard muffled movements not quite overhead—­somewhere above—­but naught else.  The doctor and Jos’s sister seemed to have retired into a sinister and dangerous mystery.  I could not dispel from my mind pictures of what they were watching and what they were doing.  The vast, cruel, fumbling clumsiness of Nature, her lack of majesty in crises that ought to be majestic, her incurable indignity, disgusted me, aroused my disdain, I wanted, as a philosopher of all the cultures, to feel that the present was indeed a majestic crisis, to be so esteemed by a superior man.  I could not.  Though the crisis possibly intimidated me somewhat, yet, on behalf of Jos Myatt, I was ashamed of it.  This may be reprehensible, but it is true.

He sat down by the fire and looked at the fire.  I could not attempt to carry on a conversation with him, and to avoid the necessity for any talk at all, I extended myself on the sofa and averted my face, wondering once again why I had accompanied the doctor to Toft End.  The doctor was now in another, an inaccessible world.  I dozed, and from my doze I was roused by Jos Myatt going to the door on the stairs.

“Jos,” said a voice.  “It’s a girl.”

Then a silence.

I admit there was a flutter in my heart.  Another soul, another formed and unchangeable temperament, tumbled into the world!  Whence?  Whither?...  As for the quality of majesty—­yes, if silver trumpets had announced the advent, instead of a stout, aproned woman, the moment could not have been more majestic in its sadness.  I say “sadness,” which is the inevitable and sole effect of these eternal and banal questions, “Whence?  Whither?”

“Is her bad?” Jos whispered.

“Her’s pretty bad,” said the voice, but cheerily.  “Bring me up another scuttle o’ coal.”