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.
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