We did not answer, but waited for him to move. He sat still, looking at us.
“So!” he said at last, wearily, “I do dream. I do, I do.” He sighed heavily. Then he added, sarcastically: “Were you interested?”
“No,” said I. “But you are out of your way surely. Which road did you want?”
“You want me to clear out,” he said.
“Well,” I said laughing in deprecation. “I don’t mind your dreaming. But this is not the way to anywhere.”
“Where may you be going then?” he asked.
“I? Home,” I replied with dignity.
“You are a Beardsall?” he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.
“I am!” I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.
He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood. Then he took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick seemed to catch at my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked with the old man along the path to the gate. We went with him into the open road. When we reached the clear sky where the light from the west fell full on our faces, he turned again and looked at us closely. His mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but he stopped himself, and only said “Good-bye—Good-bye.”