"By Jove, Carstairs, I'm proud of you, and it's all my teaching, every bit. 'Ye ponderous Saxon swingeth ye sledge hammer.'" Darwen smiled like the rising sun in June. "God! what glorious weather we're getting. Look at the sky, Carstairs! Did you ever see a sky like that in October?"
"The sky's alright. I should have thought the the earth beneath your feet had more concern with you." He pointed downwards with his finger. He was feeling rather well pleased with himself.
"Well done, Carstairs. The earth is good. I adore the earth, that is nature. Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood. It's a pity you don't ready poetry, Carstairs." He smiled, genially.
Carstairs remained silent, impassive. He watched him as he watched an engine when he tested it; looking at everything, expecting anything.
"When I was taking my before-breakfast walk this morning, I came across a slow-worm; rather late for a slow-worm in October, isn't it?"
"Couldn't say."
"Ah! I thought you were an observer of these things. It's rather a pity. Still, I'll proceed. I touched his tail with my stick, and—you know the usual result—he promptly waggled it off and left it on the footpath while the rest of him disappeared in the long grass. Now the slow-worm thought that was smart, but it was really only silly. I didn't want his tail, or the rest of him; he thought I did, he was used to people who did, he thought I was a common or garden fool. So do you, Carstairs. You can go right now to Dr Jameson or to the devil himself; in fact, you can do what you damn well please. I have no further use for you, and that being the case, I don't intend to carry you around on my back any longer."
"Very well." Carstairs turned without another word and opened the door.
"Stop a minute."
Carstairs turned.