(continued)

"You never look at it."

"Never look at it?"

"No.  I've watched you thirteen nights, and not once have you looked at the sunset—not once."

He knitted his brows like one who encounters a problem.

"Well, I enjoy the sunlight—the atmosphere—I go along this path, through that gate"—he jerked his head over his shoulder—"and round—"

"You don't.  You never have been.  It's all nonsense.  There isn't a way.  To-night for instance—"

"Oh!  to-night!  Let me see.  Ah!  I just glanced at my watch, saw that I had already been out just three minutes over the precise half-hour, decided there was not time to go round, turned—"

"You always do."

He looked at me—reflected.  "Perhaps I do, now I come to think of it.  But what was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Why, this!"

"This?"

"Yes.  Why do you do it?  Every night you come making a noise—"

"Making a noise?"

"Like this."  I imitated his buzzing noise.  He looked at me, and it was evident the buzzing awakened distaste.  "Do I do that?" he asked.

"Every blessed evening."

"I had no idea."

He stopped dead.  He regarded me gravely.  "Can it be," he said, "that I have formed a Habit?"

"Well, it looks like it.  Doesn't it?"

He pulled down his lower lip between finger and thumb.  He regarded a puddle at his feet.

"My mind is much occupied," he said.  "And you want to know why!  Well, sir, I can assure you that not only do I not know why I do these things, but I did not even know I did them.  Come to think, it is just as you say; I never have been beyond that field . . .  And these things annoy you?"

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