Cedars grow in forests all together. The poor thing has drifted, that is all.'

They were getting rather deep. Sanderson, talking

THE MAN WHOM THE TREES LOVED 27

against time, spoke so fast. It was too condensed. Bittacy hardly followed that last bit. His mind floundered among his own less definite, less sorted thoughts, till presently another sentence from the artist startled him into attention again.

* That cedar will protect you here, though, because' you both have humanised it by your thinking so lovingly of its presence. The others can't get past it, as it were.'

* Protect me ! ' he exclaimed. * Protect me from their love ?'

Sanderson laughed. * We're getting rather mixed,' he said ; 'we're talking of one thing in the terms of another really. But what I mean is—you see—that their love for you, their " awareness " of your personality and presence involves the idea of winning you —across the border—into themselves—into their world of living. It means, in a way, taking you over.'

The ideas the artist started in his mind ran furious wild races to and fro. It was like a maze sprung suddenly into movement. The whirling of the intricate lines bewildered him. They went so fast, leaving but half an explanation of their goal. He followed first one, then another, but a new one always dashed across to intercept before he could get anywhere.

* But India,' he said, presently in a lower voice, ' India is so far away—from this little English forest. The trees, too, are utterly different for one thing ?'

The rustle of skirts warned of Mrs. Bittacy's approach. This was a sentence he could turn round another way in case she came up and pressed for explanation.

' There is communion among trees all the world

over,' was the strange quick reply. ' They always know.'

* They always know! You think then ?'

* The winds, you see—the great, swift carriers ! They have their ancient rights of way about the world. An easterly wind, for instance, carrying on stage by stage as it were—linking dropped messages and meanings from land to land like the birds—an easterly wind '

Mrs. Bittacy swept in upon them with the tumbler—

' There, David,' she said, * that will ward off any beginnings of attack. Just a spoonful, dear. Oh, oh ! not all \ ' for he had swallowed half the contents at a single gulp as usual; * another dose before you go to bed, and the balance in the morning, first thing when you wake.'

She turned to her guest, who put the tumbler down for her upon a table at his elbow. She had heard them speak of the east wind. She emphasised the warning she had misinterpreted. The private part of the conversation came to an abrupt end.

* It is the one thing that upsets him more than any other—an east wind,' she said, ' and I am glad, Mr. Sanderson, to hear you think so too.*

A DEEP hush followed, in the middle of which an owl was heard calling its muffled note in the forest. A big moth whirred with a soft collision against one of the windows. Mrs. Bittacy started slightly, but no one spoke.