The room was often lit with sunlight, and the wind blew through the open casements, chasing away the reek of physic and death and pain that filled the lower levels of the house. Beaumont had climbed out through the window and sat on the roof at present, smoking his pipe and watching a bank of clouds approach from the south. He was safely out of the wind because of a broad brick chimney with half a dozen chimney pots. Pigeons and house sparrows stood or hopped roundabout, regarding him carefully, waiting for him to share more crumbs from the half-eaten loaf thrust into his vest. A particularly fat sparrow hopped up onto his shoulder and pecked away at the top of the loaf. Beaumont sat very still so as not to frighten it. He was fond of a forthright sparrow. When it hopped away, he tapped out his pipe, put it into his pocket, and then tore up the rest of the bread and cast it out over the slates, watching the birds scrambling happily after it, others winging down from the sky. He played a tune on his flute, a melody he had contrived himself, and noted with satisfaction that the birds seemed to enjoy it, especially the pigeons, who stopped their incessant eating and watched him play.
