And let us go on with our evening. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Retracing his steps, he arrived, without further accident, at the eastern platform of the starling. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. There are some papers I have to look through to-night—important papers.
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