Christopher did not answer, but walked on where many an acre of fern spread over the southern face of the slope.
"Here you are," he said presently, indicating a burrow and a pile of mould. "Tommy Bates found it when he was here picking sloes and told me about it. I won't be sure it isn't a fox myself; though he declares the earth to be a badger's."
"Yes, I think that dead white grass means a badger. He brought it up from the valley."
"Then Tommy was right and I'm glad, for any distinguished stranger is welcome on my ground. What does the brute eat?"
"Roots and beech mast for choice. But he's carnivorous to the extent of an occasional frog or beetle; and I'm afraid he wouldn't pass a partridge's nest if there were eggs in it."
"That's a black mark against the beggar, but I'll pretend I don't know it."
They strolled forward and Myles kept his eyes upon the ground, while Christopher watched the sunset.
"It's a singular puzzle, the things that make a man melancholy," said the latter suddenly. "Once I had a theory that any perfect thing, no matter what, must produce sadness in the human mind, simply out of its perfection."
"A country life would be a pretty miserable business if that was so—with the perfect at the door of our eyes and ears all day long."
"Then I discovered that it depended on other considerations. Love of life is concerned with it. Youth saddens nobody; but age must. Our love of life wakes our sorrow for the old who are going out of it. 'Tis the difference between a bud and a withered blossom. Sunrise makes no man sad. That's why you love it, and love to be in it, as I do. The blush of dawn is like the warm cheek of a waking child—lovely; but sunset is a dying thing. There's sadness in that, and the more beautiful, the more sad."