He was holding, instead of a rod, something that might have been a landing-net which some fishermen use, but which was much more like the ordinary toy net which children carry, and which they generally use indifferently for shrimps or butterflies.  He was dipping this into the water at intervals, gravely regarding its harvest of weed or mud, and emptying it out again.

“No, I haven’t caught anything,” he remarked, calmly, as if answering an unspoken query.  “When I do I have to throw it back again; especially the big fish.  But some of the little beasts interest me when I get ’em.”

“A scientific interest, I suppose?” observed March.

“Of a rather amateurish sort, I fear,” answered the strange fisherman.  “I have a sort of hobby about what they call ’phenomena of phosphorescence.’  But it would be rather awkward to go about in society carrying stinking fish.”

“I suppose it would,” said March, with a smile.

“Rather odd to enter a drawing-room carrying a large luminous cod,” continued the stranger, in his listless way.  “How quaint it would be if one could carry it about like a lantern, or have little sprats for candles.  Some of the seabeasts would really be very pretty like lampshades; the blue sea-snail that glitters all over like starlight; and some of the red starfish really shine like red stars.  But, naturally, I’m not looking for them here.”

March thought of asking him what he was looking for; but, feeling unequal to a technical discussion at least as deep as the deep-sea fishes, he returned to more ordinary topics.

“Delightful sort of hole this is,” he said.  “This little dell and river here.  It’s like those places Stevenson talks about, where something ought to happen.”

“I know,” answered the other.  “I think it’s because the place itself, so to speak, seems to happen and not merely to exist.  Perhaps that’s what old Picasso and some of the Cubists are trying to express by angles and jagged lines.  Look at that wall like low cliffs that juts forward just at right angles to the slope of turf sweeping up to it.  That’s like a silent collision.  It’s like a breaker and the back-wash of a wave.”

March looked at the low-browed crag overhanging the green slope and nodded.  He was interested in a man who turned so easily from the technicalities of science to those of art; and asked him if he admired the new angular artists.

“As I feel it, the Cubists are not Cubist enough,” replied the stranger.  “I mean they’re not thick enough.  By making things mathematical they make them thin.  Take the living lines out of that landscape, simplify it to a right angle, and you flatten it out to a mere diagram on paper.  Diagrams have their own beauty; but it is of just the other sort.  They stand for the unalterable things; the calm, eternal, mathematical sort of truths; what somebody calls the ’white radiance of’—­”

He stopped, and before the next word came something had happened almost too quickly and completely to be realized.  From behind the overhanging rock came a noise and rush like that of a railway train; and a great motor car appeared.  It topped the crest of cliff, black against the sun, like a battle-chariot rushing to destruction in some wild epic.  March automatically put out his hand in one futile gesture, as if to catch a falling tea-cup in a drawing-room.