Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. ’ Melusine hesitated. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. 1 through 1.
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