When, then, he had kissed Frances Freeland, and watched her ascend the stairs, breathless because she would breathe through her nose to the very last step, he turned into his study, lighted his pipe, and sat down to a couple of hours of a report upon the forces of constabulary available in the various counties, in the event of any further agricultural rioting, such as had recently taken place on a mild scale in one or two districts where there was still Danish blood.  He worked at the numbers steadily, with just that engineer’s touch of mechanical invention which had caused him to be so greatly valued in a department where the evolution of twelve policemen out of ten was constantly desired.  His mastery of figures was highly prized, for, while it had not any of that flamboyance which has come from America and the game of poker, it possessed a kind of English optimism, only dangerous when, as rarely happened, it was put to the test.  He worked two full pipes long, and looked at the clock.  Twelve!  No good knocking off just yet!  He had no liking for bed this many a long year, having, from loyalty to memory and a drier sense of what became one in the Home Department, preserved his form against temptations of the flesh.  Yet, somehow, to-night he felt no spring, no inspiration, in his handling of county constabulary.  A kind of English stolidity about them baffled him—­ten of them remained ten.  And leaning that forehead, whose height so troubled Frances Freeland, on his neat hand, he fell to brooding.  Those young people with everything before them!  Did he envy them?  Or was he glad of his own age?  Fifty!  Fifty already; a fogey!  An official fogey!  For all the world like an umbrella, that every day some one put into a stand and left there till it was time to take it out again.  Neatly rolled, too, with an elastic and button!  And this fancy, which had never come to him before, surprised him.  One day he, too, would wear out, slit all up his seams, and they would leave him at home, or give him away to the butler.

He went to the window.  A scent of—­of May, or something!  And nothing in sight save houses just like his own!  He looked up at the strip of sky privileged to hang just there.  He had got a bit rusty with his stars.  There, however, certainly was Venus.  And he thought of how he had stood by the ship’s rail on that honeymoon trip of his twenty years ago, giving his young wife her first lesson in counting the stars.  And something very deep down, very mossed and crusted over in John’s heart, beat and stirred, and hurt him.  Nedda—­he had caught her looking at that young fellow just as Anne had once looked at him, John Freeland, now an official fogey, an umbrella in a stand.  There was a policeman!  How ridiculous the fellow looked, putting one foot before the other, flirting his lantern and trying the area gates!  This confounded scent of hawthorn—­could it be hawthorn?—­got here into the heart