Antic Hay

think it would interest Mrs. Viveash much,” he said. “Oh, yes it would. Really,” she declared. “Well, as a matter of fact it isn’t here.” Gumbril Senior pulled with fury at his beard. “Not here? But what’s happened to it?” Gumbril Senior wouldn’t explain. He just ignored his son’s question and began to talk once more about the starlings. Later on, however, when Gumbril and Mrs. Viveash were preparing to go, the old man drew him apart into a corner and began to whisper the explanation. “I didn’t want to blare it about in front of strangers,” he said, as though it were a question of the housemaid’s illegitimate baby or a repair to the water-closet. “But the fact is, I’ve sold it. The Victoria and Albert had wind that I was making it; they’ve been wanting it all the time. And I’ve let them have it.” “But why?” Gumbril Junior asked in a tone of astonishment. He knew with what a paternal affection—no, more than paternal; for he was sure that his father was more whole-heartedly attached to his models than his son—with what pride he regarded these children of his spirit. Gumbril Senior sighed. “It’s all that young imbecile,” he said. “What young imbecile?” “Porteous’s son, of course. You see, poor Porteous has had to sell his library, among other things. You don’t know what that means to him. All these precious books. And collected at the price of such hardships. I thought I’d like to buy a few of the best ones back for him. They gave me quite a good price at the Museum.” He came out of his corner and hurried across the room to help Mrs. Viveash with her cloak. “Allow me, allow me,” he said. Slowly and pensively Gumbril Junior followed him. Beyond good and evil? Below good and evil? The name of earwig.... The tubby pony trotted. The wild columbines suspended, among the shadows of the hazel copse, hooked spurs, helmets of aerial purple. The twelfth sonata of Mozart was insecticide; no earwigs could crawl through that music. Emily’s breasts were firm and pointed and she had slept at last without a tremor. In the starlight, good, true and beautiful became one. Write the discovery in books—in books _quos_, in the morning, _legimus cacantes_. They descended the stairs. The cab was waiting outside. “The Last Ride again,” said Mrs. Viveash. “Golgotha Hospital, Southwark,” said Gumbril to the driver and followed her into the cab. “Drive, drive, drive,” repeated Mrs. Viveash. “I like your father, Theodore. One of these days he’ll fly away with the birds. And how nice it is of those starlings to wake themselves up like that in the middle of the night, merely to amuse him. Considering how unpleasant it is to be woken in the night. Where are we going?” “We’re going to look at Shearwater in his laboratory.” “Is that a long way away?” “Immensely,” said Gumbril. “Thank God for that,” Mrs. Viveash piously and expiringly breathed.