She was frail and beautifully dressed and smelt of violets; the sort of old lady who always has the corner seat with her back to the engine. Hilary slid hastily along the upholstery or she would have sat down on him. He wondered what it would have been like, for both of them, if she had, and wondered too if he would ever have the courage to make such experiments, and decided that the sooner he got into a quiet life at Nuns Farthing the better.

For something over two hours he and the old lady traveled in silence, across the June countryside. No one disturbed them.

But as they neared the little station of Upper Bramble, near Wells, he perceived uneasily that she was not going to get out first. Reluctantly, therefore, when the train slowed to a stop he pulled himself together, seized the latch, and jumped out as the door swung open under his hand. A bored, unseeing country porter slammed it shut again, unaware of her astonishment.

Yellow sunset light still touched the tops of the trees at the end of the long midsummer day, but the hedged lane grew dusky as he walked the two miles between the station and Nuns Farthing. A couple of motor cars and a boy on a Walls bicycle passed him without incident.

Only a short way from the gates he met a farmer with a dog at his heels, trudging towards the pub at Upper Bramble. As they came level the dog shied into the ditch and stood there, stiff-legged, growling in its throat, while the hair on its back rose.

“Come on, then, you silly fool,” said the farmer over his shoulder.

“Good evening,” said Hilary politely at a venture, and the dog let out an hysterical yelp.

“What’s the matter wi’ ye, Nab—seein’ things?” grinned its master, and the dog hurried after him, still growling, into the dusk.

Hilary had to admit to himself that he was shaken by the encounter. It was a new and humiliating sensation to him to be barked at by a dog as though he was a tramp—only worse. Normally he had got on with dogs. Heretofore they had always smiled at him and thrust damp friendly muzzles into his hand if encouraged. It was no fun to be outlawed by dogs, it was as though a door had opened somewhere between the worlds and a cold draught was blowing through. That dog had seen him, there was no doubt about it. And the farmer had not. Either way, it was wrong. Horses, too, he surmised, would have none of him now. He began to feel as though there wasn’t going to be much left.