office, and wearing spats.
'Our friend Masham,' said Timmy Durrant, 'would rather not be seen in our company as we are now.' His buttons had come off.
'D'you know Masham's aunt?' said Jacob.
'Never knew he had one,' said Timmy.
'Masham has millions of aunts,' said Jacob.
'Masham is mentioned in Domesday Book,' said Timmy.
'So are his aunts,' said Jacob.
'His sister,' said Timmy, 'is a very pretty girl.'
'That's what'll happen to you, Timmy,' said Jacob.
'It'll happen to you first,' said Timmy.
'But this woman I was telling you about-Masham's aunt-'
'Oh, do get on,' said Timmy, for Jacob was laughing so much that he could not speak.
'Masham's aunt...'
Timmy laughed so much that he could not speak.
'Masham's aunt...'
'What is there about Masham that makes one laugh?' said Timmy.
'Hang it all-a man who swallows his tie-pin,' said Jacob.
'Lord Chancellor before he's fifty,' said Timmy.
'He's a gentleman,' said Jacob.
'The Duke of Wellington was a gentleman,' said Timmy.
'Keats wasn't.'
'Lord Salisbury was.'
'And what about God?' said Jacob.
The Scilly Isles now appeared as if directly pointed at by a golden finger issuing from a cloud; and everybody knows how portentous that sight is, and how these broad rays, whether they light upon the Scilly Isles or upon the tombs of crusaders in cathedrals, always shake the very foundations of scepticism and lead to jokes about God.
/*
'Abide with me:
Fast falls the eventide;
The shadows deepen;
Lord, with me abide,'
*/
sang Timmy Durrant.
'At my place we used to have a hymn which began
/* Great God, what do I see and hear?' */
said Jacob.
Gulls rode gently swaying in little companies of two or three quite near the boat; the cormorant, as if following his long strained neck in eternal pursuit, skimmed an inch above the water to the next rock; and the drone of the tide in the caves came across the water, low, monotonous, like the voice of some one talking to himself.
/*
'Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee,'
sang Jacob.
Like the blunt tooth of some monster, a rock broke the surface; brown; overflown with perpetual waterfalls.
/* 'Rock of Ages,' */
Jacob sang, lying on his back, looking up into the sky at midday, from which every shred of cloud had been withdrawn, so that it was like something permanently displayed with the cover off.
By six o'clock a breeze blew in off an icefield; and by seven the water was more purple than blue; and by half- past seven there was a patch of rough gold-beater's skin round the Scilly Isles, and Durrant's face, as he sat steering, was of the colour of a red lacquer box polished for generations. By nine all the fire and confusion had gone out of the sky, leaving wedges of apple-green and plates of pale yellow; and by ten the lanterns on the boat were making twisted colours upon the waves, elongated or squat, as the waves stretched or humped themselves. The beam from the lighthouse strode rapidly across the water. Infinite millions of miles away powdered stars twinkled; but the waves slapped the boat, and crashed, with regular and appalling solemnity, against the rocks.
Although it would be possible to knock at the cottage door and ask for a glass of milk, it is only thirst that would compel the intrusion. Yet perhaps Mrs. Pascoe would welcome it. The summer's day may be wearing heavy. Washing in her little scullery, she may hear the cheap clock on the mantelpiece tick, tick, tick... tick, tick, tick. She is alone in the house. Her husband is out helping Farmer Hosken; her daughter married and gone to America. Her elder son is married too, but she does not agree with his wife. The Wesleyan minister came along and took the younger boy. She is alone in the house. A steamer, probably bound for Cardiff, now crosses the horizon, while near at hand one bell of a foxglove swings to and fro with a bumble-bee for clapper. These white Cornish cottages are built on the edge of the cliff; the garden grows gorse more readily than cabbages; and for hedge, some primeval man has piled granite boulders. In one of these, to hold, an historian conjectures, the victim's blood, a basin has been hollowed, but in our time it serves more tamely to seat those tourists who wish for an uninterrupted view of the Gurnard's Head. Not that any one objects to a blue print dress and a white apron in a cottage garden.
'Look- she has to draw her water from a well in the garden.'
'Very lonely it must be in winter, with the wind sweeping over those hills, and the waves dashing on the rocks.'
Even on a summer's day you hear them murmuring.
Having drawn her water, Mrs. Pascoe went in. The tourists regretted that they had brought no glasses, so that they might have read the name of the tramp steamer. Indeed, it was such a fine day that there was no saying what a pair of field-glasses might not have fetched into view. Two fishing luggers, presumably from St. Ives Bay, were now sailing in an opposite direction from the steamer, and the floor of the sea became alternately clear and opaque. As for the bee, having sucked its fill of honey, it visited the teasle and thence made a straight line to Mrs. Pascoe's patch, once more directing the tourists' gaze to the old woman's print dress and white apron, for she had come to the door of the cottage and was standing there.
There she stood, shading her eyes and looking out to sea.
For the millionth time, perhaps, she looked at the sea. A peacock butterfly now spread himself upon the teasle, fresh and newly emerged, as the blue and chocolate down on his wings testified. Mrs. Pascoe went indoors, fetched a cream pan, came out, and stood scouring it. Her face was assuredly not soft, sensual, or lecherous, but hard, wise, wholesome rather, signifying in a room full of sophisticated people the flesh and blood of life. She would tell a lie, though, as soon as the truth. Behind her on the wall hung a large dried skate. Shut up in the parlour she prized mats, china mugs, and photographs, though the mouldy little room was saved from the salt breeze only by the depth of a brick, and between lace curtains you saw the gannet drop like a stone, and on stormy days the gulls came shuddering through the air, and the steamers' lights were now high, now deep. Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
The picture papers were delivered punctually on Sunday, and she pored long over Lady Cynthia's wedding at the
