It was nearly dark when he reached the house, and lights showed in some of the windows. His footsteps quickened at sight of it, and a feeling of restoration and achievement swept through him. He had come home. Nuns Farthing, at least, was still the same, and there was comfort in it, there would be privacy and solace within his own four walls. Books. He could still read books. And no one would care what he did in his own room at the top of the house, there would be no one to see.

Once more he was confronted with the problem of a closed door, for the evening was cool.

There must be a way to pass through a door without opening it, he told himself, but I’m hanged if I see my way to try it now.

He walked round the house to the back, noticing with approval that the garden was well-kept and flourishing. A mounting excitement had begun to possess him, as though some tremendous experience was drawing nearer with every step he took; an exhilaration out of all proportion to the obvious satisfaction it would be to see his own things again and make sure that all was well with them.

It’s coming, he thought, trying not to hurry foolishly, for surely there was no need for him to hurry ever again? Whatever it is, it’s going to happen now. I was wasting time in Town—not that time matters after all. But this is it. This is what I’ve been headed for. I might have known it was here, all along. It’s coming now—whatever it is....

Through the kitchen window he could see Mrs. Pilton, sitting as she used to do, with her knitting. The maids must be out courting in the summer twilight, or had got a lift in to the cinema. For a moment he paused to contemplate the dark, brooding face bent above her knitting, while a grateful feeling of companionship crept through his loneliness and his driving anxiety. This strange, uncommunicative woman, a native of the grim countryside, was part of his childhood. She had changed very little since his earliest memory of her.

As far back as he could go, she had been a widow, with a somber immobility of expression occasionally lighted up by a smile which wrought a dazzling change in her, showed white, even teeth and golden flecks in her dark eyes. He was unaware, even now, that that fleeting glimpse of lost beauty which lived in her smile was his own personal property, and had never once been seen by George; though he was not so stupid as not to suspect as time went on that here, at least, he was the favorite.