III
Blob was coming across the greensward towards them.
He was lolling along, both hands tucked in his waist-band, whistling.
Then he looked up, and saw the limp figure with the dangling legs being carried towards him.
He stopped dead, gaping.
The colour left his cheek; his face puckered like a child's making ready to cry.
That helpless man, borne as he had seen babies borne, flashed a light on his twilight mind. For one swift second he saw, as others see, the pathos of things human. A rumour of the world's tragedy pierced to his remote soul; and the pity of it staggered him.
Flinging back his head he thrust out a questioning finger.
"Why?" he wailed.
"That," said the Gentleman as he was carried by, "is the question which Life asks and Death answers. Good-night, Monsieur Moon-calf. Beautiful dreams."