Stories of the East

CONTENTS
Many people did not like Jessop. He had rather a brutal manner sometimes of telling brutal things—the truth, he called it. They don't like it, he once said to me in a rare moment of confidence. But why the devil shouldn't they? They pretend these sorts of things, battle, murder, and sudden death, are so real—more real than white kid gloves and omnibuses and rose leaves—and yet when you give them the real thing, they curl up like school girls. It does them good, you know, does them a world of good.
They didn't like it and they didn't altogether like him. He was a sturdy thick set man, very strong, a dark reserved man with black eyebrows which met over his nose. He had knocked about the world a good deal. He appealed to me in many ways; I liked to meet him. He had fished things up out of life, curious grim things, things which may have disgusted but which certainly fascinated as well.
The last time I saw him we were both staying with Alderton, the novelist. Mrs Alderton was away—recruiting after annual childbirth, I think. The other guests were Pemberton, who was recruiting after his annual book of verses, and Smith, Hanson Smith, the critic.
It was a piping hot June day, and we strolled out after dinner in the cool moonlight down the great fields which lead to the river. It was very cool, very beautiful, very romantic lying there on the grass above the river bank, watching the great trees in the moonlight and the silver water slipping along so musically to the sea. We grew silent and sentimental—at least I know I did.
Two figures came slowly along the bank, a young man with his arm round a girl's waist. They passed just under where we were lying without seeing us. We heard the murmur of his words and in the shadow of the trees they stopped and we heard the sound of their kisses.
I heard Pemberton mutter:
A boy and girl if the good fates please Making love say, The happier they. Come up out or the light of the moon And let them pass as they will, too soon With the bean flowers boon And the blackbird's tune And May and June.