“Your little bird—­a lark, I think you called it,” he remarked, “may be a very eloquent prophet for the whole kingdom of his species, but the song of life for a bird and that for a man are surely different things!”

“Not so very different after all,” Mannering answered, still watching the bird.  “The longer one lives, the more clearly one recognizes the absolute universality of life.”

Borrowdean shrugged his shoulders, with a little gesture of impatience.  He had left London at a moment when he could ill be spared, and had not travelled to this out-of-the-way corner of the kingdom to exchange purposeless platitudes with a man whose present attitude towards life at any rate he heartily despised.  He seated himself upon a half-broken rail, and lit a cigarette.

“Mannering,” he said, “I did not come here to simper cheap philosophies with you like a couple of schoolgirls.  I have a real live errand.  I want to speak to you of great things.”

Mannering moved a little uneasily.  He had a very shrewd idea as to the nature of that errand.

“Of great things,” he repeated slowly.  “Are you in earnest, Borrowdean?”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Mannering continued, “I have left the world of great things, as you and I used to regard them, very far behind.  I am glad to see you here, of course, but I cannot think of any serious subject which it would be useful or profitable for us to discuss.  You understand me, Borrowdean, I am sure!”

Borrowdean closely eyed this man who once had been his friend.

“The old sore still rankles, then, Mannering,” he said.  “Has time done nothing to heal it?”

Mannering laughed easily.

“How can you think me such a child?” he exclaimed.  “If Rochester himself were to come to see me he would be as welcome as you are.  In fact,” he continued, more seriously, “if you could only realize, my friend, how peaceful and happy life here may be, amongst the quiet places, you would believe me at once when I assure you that I can feel nothing but gratitude towards those people and those circumstances which impelled me to seek it.”

“What should you think, then,” Borrowdean asked, watching his friend through half-closed eyes, “of those who sought to drag you from it?”

Mannering’s laugh was as free and natural as the wind itself.  He had bared his head, and had turned directly seawards.

“Hatred, my dear Borrowdean,” he declared, “if I thought that they had a single chance of success.  As it is—­indifference.”

Borrowdean’s eyebrows were raised.  He held his cigarette between his fingers, and looked at it for several moments.

“Yet I am here,” he said slowly, “for no other purpose.”

Mannering turned and faced his friend.

“All I can say is that I am sorry to hear it,” he declared.  “I know the sort of man you are, Borrowdean, and I know very well that if you have come down here with something to say to me you will say it.  Therefore go on.  Let us have it over.”