It was one day in April that Mr. Stone, heralded by the scent of Harris
tweed and baked potatoes which habitually encircled him, appeared at
five o'clock in Hilary's study doorway.
"She has not come," he said.
Hilary laid down his pen. It was the first real Spring day.
"Will you come for a walk with me, sir, instead?" he asked.
"Yes," said Mr. Stone.
They walked out into Kensington Gardens, Hilary with his head rather
bent towards the ground, and Mr. Stone, with eyes fixed on his far
thoughts, slightly poking forward his silver beard.
In their favourite firmaments the stars of crocuses and daffodils
were shining. Almost every tree had its pigeon cooing, every bush its
blackbird in full song. And on the paths were babies in perambulators.
These were their happy hunting-grounds, and here they came each day to
watch from a safe distance the little dirty girls sitting on the grass
nursing little dirty boys, to listen to the ceaseless chatter of these
common urchins, and learn to deal with the great problem of the lowest
classes. And babies sat in their perambulators, thinking and sucking
india-rubber tubes. Dogs went before them, and nursemaids followed
after.
The spirit of colour was flying in the distant trees, swathing them with
brownish-purple haze; the sky was saffroned by dying sunlight.
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