"Aye, a beautiful morning!"
"A nasty fog last night."
"Aye, aye—all cleared off now though. It'll be a warm day."
The dog, his tongue out, his eyes shining, ran barking hither, thither. They passed over the hill, the sheep like a cloud against the green.
He pushed up, the breeze blowing more strongly now on his forehead.
He reached the cottage gardens, and the smell of roses was once more thick in his nostrils. The chimneys were sending silver skeins of smoke into the blue air. Bacon smells and scent of fresh bread came to him.
He was at the hotel gates. Oh, but he was weary now! Weary and happy. He stumbled up the path smelling the roses again. Into the hall. The gong was ringing for breakfast. Children, crying out and laughing, raced down the stairs, passed him. He reached his room. He opened the door. How quiet it was! Just as he had left it.
Ah! there was the tree of the "St. Gilles," and there the grave friendly eyes of Strang leaning over the etching-table to greet him.
Just as they were—but he!—not as he had been! He caught his face in the glass smiling idiotically.
He staggered to his bed, flung himself down still smiling. His eyes closed. There floated up to him a face—a little white face crowned with red hair, but not evil now, not animal—friendly, lonely, asking for something. . . .