It was more like some dumb animal—like Dandy, in whose eyes sometimes I almost fancy that I see tears because he cannot express in words the emotion which is a torrent within him. But at least I understand what he would say, and when it comes to such a pass I tell him so. I could not tell Bellwattle. To begin with, I did not know myself. She was driving towards some point which was vivid and real enough to her, whereas, there was only the dimmest conjecture in my mind. In such a case it is best to ask questions. Give her something to contradict, and in the excitement of being misunderstood a woman may hit upon her meaning unawares.

"If they made you forget everything," I began.

"Yes; but don't you see! That's just it! You're not meant to forget. It isn't forgetting that's happiness. It's remembering. I can see you don't understand what I mean. I didn't mean remembering things that have happened a long while ago, but being conscious—that's the word I want—being conscious of things while they're going on. Like that lark up there being conscious that it's singing like that; being conscious that it's the first of May, that the sun's shining, that the sky is blue, that the sea is—is like that—" she pointed to it glittering there below us. "That—oh, that God's in his Heaven—that's being happy. Trying to forget everything is only pleasure. And that's all they do in London. My splendid times were when I forgot, not when I remembered. When I remembered, I was conscious of things—conscious that people were poor and starving, that I was only just one in a crowd, all crushing to see something that would make us forget there was drunkenness and filthiness and crime everywhere. Every newspaper placard in the street reminded me of it. The only times when I could get away from it were at a theatre or a jolly good dance or something like that; then, I forgot—then those times were splendid. But I wasn't happy. I lie back here now on this heather and I look up at that lark—miles and miles up in the heavens and I don't want to forget a note of it—I don't want to forget that life is going on all around me. I should hate to forget it, because here it's all wonderful. If any one here committed murder it would be whispered among the villagers in awed voices. No one would dare go shouting it down the main street. His own mother wouldn't recognize him afterwards if he did. Men get drunk, I know; they beat their wives, they starve them, they starve themselves and their children—life isn't any different, but things like that take their proper place. If a lark were to soar up into the heavens out of the heart of London, there would be just one man to see it, the man who writes to 

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