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were shards and shattered masses of inky purple cloud； which seemed
falling towards the earth in every kind of colossal perspective。
One of them really had the character of some many…mitred； many…bearded；
many…winged Assyrian image； huge head downwards； hurled out of heaven
a sort of false Jehovah； who was perhaps Satan。 All the other clouds
had preposterous pinnacled shapes； as if the god's palaces had been
flung after him。
And yet； while the empty heaven was full of silent catastrophe； the height
of human buildings above which they sat held here and there a tiny trivial
noise that was the exact antithesis； and they heard some six streets below
a newsboy calling； and a bell bidding to chapel。 They could also hear
talk out of the garden below； and realized that the irrepressible Smith
must have followed Gould downstairs； for his eager and pleading accents
could be heard； followed by the half…humourous protests of Miss Duke
and the full and very youthful laughter of Rosamund Hunt。 The air had
that cold kindness that comes after a storm。 Michael Moon drank it in with
as serious a relish as he had drunk the little bottle of cheap claret；
which he had emptied almost at a draught。 Inglewood went on eating ginger
very slowly and with a solemnity unfathomable as the sky above him。
There was still enough stir in the freshness of the atmosphere to make them
almost fancy they could smell the garden soil and the last roses of autumn。
Suddenly there came from the darkening room a silvery ping and pong which
told them that Rosamund had brought out the long…neglected mandoline。
After the first few notes there was more of the distant bell…like laughter。
〃Inglewood；〃 said Michael Moon； 〃have you ever heard that I
am a blackguard？〃
〃I haven't heard it； and I don't believe it；〃 answered Inglewood；
after an odd pause。 〃But I have heard you werewhat they
call rather wild。〃
〃If you have heard that I am wild； you can contradict the rumour；〃
said Moon； with an extraordinary calm； 〃I am tame。
I am quite tame； I am about the tamest beast that crawls。
I drink too much of the same kind of whisky at the same time
every night。 I even drink about the same amount too much。
I go to the same number of public…houses。 I meet the same damned
women with mauve faces。 I hear the same number of dirty stories
generally the same dirty stories。 You may assure my friends；
Inglewood； that you see before you a person whom civilization
has thoroughly tamed。〃
Arthur Inglewood was staring with feelings that made him nearly
fall off the roof； for indeed the Irishman's face； always sinister；
was now almost demoniacal。
〃Christ confound it！〃 cried out Moon； suddenly clutching the empty
claret bottle； 〃this is about the thinnest and filthiest wine
I ever uncorked； and it's the only drink I have really enjoyed
for nine years。 I was never wild until just ten minutes ago。〃
And he sent the bottle whizzing； a wheel of glass； far away beyond
the garden into the road； where； in the profound evening silence；
they could even hear it break and part upon the stones。
〃Moon；〃 said Arthur Inglewood； rather huskily； 〃you mustn't be
so bitter about it。 Everyone has to take the world as he finds it；
of course one often finds it a bit dull〃
〃That fellow doesn't；〃 said Michael decisively； 〃I mean that
fellow Smith。 I have a fancy there's some method in his madness。
It looks as if he could turn into a sort of wonderland any minute by taking
one step out of the plain road。 Who would have thought of that trapdoor？
Who would have thought that this cursed colonial claret could taste quite
nice among the chimney…pots？ Perhaps that is the real key of fairyland。
Perhaps Nosey Gould's beastly little Empire Cigarettes ought only to
be smoked on stilts； or something of that sort。 Perhaps Mrs。 Duke's
cold leg of mutton would seem quite appetizing at the top of a tree。
Perhaps even my damned； dirty； monotonous drizzle of Old Bill Whisky〃
〃Don't be so rough on yourself；〃 said Inglewood； in serious distress。
〃The dullness isn't your fault or the whisky's。 Fellows who don't
fellows like me I meanhave just the same feeling that it's all rather
flat and a failure。 But the world's made like that； it's all survival。
Some people are made to get on； like Warner； and some people are
made to stick quiet； like me。 You can't help your temperament。
I know you're much cleverer than I am； but you can't help having
all the loose ways of a poor literary chap； and I can't help
having all the doubts and helplessness of a small scientific chap；
any more than a fish can help floating or a fern can help curling up。
Humanity； as Warner said so well in that lecture； really consists
of quite different tribes of animals all disguised as men。〃
In the dim garden below the buzz of talk was suddenly broken
by Miss Hunt's musical instrument banging with the abruptness
of artillery into a vulgar but spirited tune。
Rosamund's voice came up rich and strong in the words of some fatuous；
fashionable coon song
〃Darkies sing a song on the old plantation；
Sing it as we sang it in days long since gone by。〃
Inglewood's brown eyes softened and saddened still more as he continued
his monologue of resignation to such a rollicking and romantic tune。
But the blue eyes of Michael Moon brightened and hardened with a light
that Inglewood did not understand。 Many centuries； and many villages
and valleys； would have been happier if Inglewood or Inglewood's countrymen
had ever understood that light； or guessed at the first blink that it
was the battle star of Ireland。
〃Nothing can ever alter it； it's in the wheels of the universe；〃
went on Inglewood； in a low voice： 〃some men are weak and some strong；
and the only thing we can do is to know that we are weak。
I have been in love lots of times； but I could not do anything；
for I remembered my own fickleness。 I have formed opinions； but I
haven't the cheek to push them； because I've so often changed them。
That's the upshot； old fellow。 We can't trust ourselves
and we can't help it。〃
Michael had risen to his feet； and stood poised in a perilous position
at the end of the roof； like some dark statue hung above its gable。
Behind him； huge clouds of an almost impossible purple turned slowly
topsy…turvy in the silent anarchy of heaven。 Their gyration made
the dark figure seem yet dizzier。
〃Let us。。。〃 he said； and was suddenly silent。
〃Let us what？〃 asked Arthur Inglewood； rising equally quick though somewhat
more cautiously； for his friend seemed to find some difficulty in speech。
〃Let us go and do some of these things we can't do；〃 said Michael。
At the same moment there burst out of the trapdoor below them
the cockatoo hair and flushed face of Innocent Smith； calling to
them that they must come down as the 〃concert〃 was in full swing；
and Mr。 Moses Gould was about to recite 〃Young Lochinvar。〃
As they dropped into Innocent's attic they nearly tumbled over its
entertaining impedimenta again。 Inglewood； staring at the littered floor；
thought instinctively of the littered floor of a nursery。
He was therefore the more moved； and even shock