He sat down by the oak tree, in the sun; square and upright, with one hand stretched out, resting on the nob of his cane, the other planted on his knee; his fur coat thrown open, his hat, roofing with its flat top the pale square of his face; his stare, very blank, fixed on the landscape.

He nodded to them as they went off down through the fields. He was, indeed, not sorry to be left thus for a quiet moment of reflection. The air was balmy, not too much heat in the sun; the prospect a fine one, a remarka.⁠ ⁠… His head fell a little to one side; he jerked it up and thought: Odd! He⁠—ah! They were waving to him from the bottom! He put up his hand, and moved it more than once. They were active⁠—the prospect was remar.⁠ ⁠… His head fell to the left, he jerked it up at once; it fell to the right. It remained there; he was asleep.

And asleep, a sentinel on the top of the rise, he appeared to rule over this prospect⁠—remarkable⁠—like some image blocked out by the special artist, of primeval Forsytes in pagan days, to record the domination of mind over matter!