“No, human,” said Frank.  “Rather more human, at least rather less of an ape.”

“Well, that was my first quest,” he continued, after a moment, “the deliberate and unswerving pursuit of joy, and my method, the eager contemplation of Nature.  As far as motive went, I daresay it was purely selfish, but as far as effect goes, it seems to me about the best thing one can do for one’s fellow-creatures, for happiness is more infectious than small-pox.  So, as I said, I sat down and waited; I looked at happy things, zealously avoided the sight of anything unhappy, and by degrees a little trickle of the happiness of this blissful world began to filter into me.  The trickle grew more abundant, and now, my dear fellow, if I could for a moment divert from me into you one half of the torrent of joy that pours through me day and night, you would throw the world, art, everything aside, and just live, exist.  When a man’s body dies, it passes into trees and flowers.  Well, that is what I have been trying to do with my soul before death.”

The servant had brought into the pergola a table with syphons and spirits, and had set a lamp upon it.  As Frank spoke he leaned forward towards the other, and Darcy for all his matter-of-fact commonsense could have sworn that his companion’s face shone, was luminous in itself.  His dark brown eyes glowed from within, the unconscious smile of a child irradiated and transformed his face.  Darcy felt suddenly excited, exhilarated.

“Go on,” he said.  “Go on.  I can feel you are somehow telling me sober truth.  I daresay you are mad; but I don’t see that matters.”

Frank laughed again.

“Mad?” he said.  “Yes, certainly, if you wish.  But I prefer to call it sane.  However, nothing matters less than what anybody chooses to call things.  God never labels his gifts; He just puts them into our hands; just as he put animals in the garden of Eden, for Adam to name if he felt disposed.”

“So by the continual observance and study of things that were happy,” continued he, “I got happiness, I got joy.  But seeking it, as I did, from Nature, I got much more which I did not seek, but stumbled upon originally by accident.  It is difficult to explain, but I will try.

“About three years ago I was sitting one morning in a place I will show you to-morrow.  It is down by the river brink, very green, dappled with shade and sun, and the river passes there through some little clumps of reeds.  Well, as I sat there, doing nothing, but just looking and listening, I heard the sound quite distinctly of some flute-like instrument playing a strange unending melody.  I thought at first it was some musical yokel on the highway and did not pay much attention.  But before long the strangeness and indescribable beauty of the tune struck me.  It never repeated itself, but it never came to an end, phrase after phrase ran its sweet course, it worked gradually and inevitably up to a climax,