“I am not sure,” said Mr. Stone.  “We are going to feed the birds.”

The little model took the paper bag.  “It’s all dropping out,” she said.  From across the road she turned her head....’Won’t you come, too?’ she seemed to say.

But Hilary passed rather hastily into the garden and shut the gate behind him.  He sat in his study, with Miranda near him, for fully an hour, without doing anything whatever, sunk in a strange, half-pleasurable torpor.  At this hour he should have been working at his book; and the fact that his idleness did not trouble him might well have given him uneasiness.  Many thoughts passed through his mind, imaginings of things he had thought left behind forever—­sensations and longings which to the normal eye of middle age are but dried forms hung in the museum of memory.  They started up at the whip of the still-living youth, the lost wildness at the heart of every man.  Like the reviving flame of half-spent fires, longing for discovery leaped and flickered in Hilary—­to find out once again what things were like before he went down the hill of age.

No trivial ghost was beckoning him; it was the ghost, with unseen face and rosy finger, which comes to men when youth has gone.

Miranda, hearing him so silent, rose.  At this hour it was her master’s habit to scratch paper.  She, who seldom scratched anything, because it was not delicate, felt dimly that this was what he should be doing.  She held up a slim foot and touched his knee.  Receiving no discouragement, she delicately sprang into his lap, and, forgetting for once her modesty, placed her arms on his chest, and licked his face all over.

It was while receiving this embrace that Hilary saw Mr. Stone and the little model returning across the garden.  The old man was walking very rapidly, holding out the fragment of a broken stick.  He was extremely pink.

Hilary went to meet them.

“What’s the matter, sir?” he said.

“I cut him over the legs,” said Mr. Stone.  “I do not regret it”; and he walked on to his room.

Hilary turned to the little model.

“It was a little dog.  The man kicked it, and Mr. Stone hit him.  He broke his stick.  There were several men; they threatened us.”  She looked up at Hilary.  “I-I was frightened.  Oh!  Mr. Dallison, isn’t he funny?”

“All heroes are funny,” murmured Hilary.

“He wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken.  Then a policeman came, and they all ran away.”

“That was quite as it should be,” said Hilary.  “And what did you do?”

Perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model cast down her eyes.

“I shouldn’t have been frightened if you had been there!”

“Heavens!” muttered Hilary.  “Mr. Stone is far more valiant than I.”

“I don’t think he is,” she replied stubbornly, and again looked up at him.