You'd better sleep the night on it." Mr.Heritage seemed to be persuaded.

He suffered himself to be led up the now dusky slopes to the gate where the road from the village ended.
He walked listlessly like a man engaged in painful reflection.

Once only he broke the silence.
"You heard the singing ?" he asked.
Dickson was a very poor hand at a lie.

"I heard something," he admitted.
"You heard a girl's voice singing ?" "It sounded like that," was the admission.

"But I'm thinking it might have been a seagull." "You're a fool," said the Poet rudely.
The return was a melancholy business, compared to the bright speed of the outward journey.