“Coming back again has turned my wits....  Now, Angelina, hurry up, can’t wait all day.”  He stopped then abruptly, to pull himself together.  “Look here, you’re alone, and if you think you’re not, you’re mad.  Remember that you’re at the Bar and not even a novelist, so that you have no excuse.”

The little platform—­usually swept by all the winds of the sea, but now as warm as a toasted bun—­flooded him with memory.  It was a platform especially connected with school, with departure and return—­departures when money in one’s pocket and cake in one’s play-box did not compensate for the hot pain in one’s throat and the cold marble feeling of one’s legs; but when every feeling of every sort was swallowed by the great overwhelming desire that the train would go so that one need not any longer be agonised by the efforts of replying to Mr. Lasher’s continued last words:  “Well, good-bye, my boy.  A good time, both at work and play”—­the train was off.

“Ticket, please, sir!” said the long-legged young man at the little wooden gate.  Seymour plunged down into the deep, high-hedged lane that even now, in winter, seemed to cover him with a fragrant odour of green leaves, of flowers, of wet soil, of sea spray.  He was now so conscious of his company that the knowledge of it could not be avoided.  It seemed to him that he heard them chattering together, knew that behind his back Sarah was trying to whisper horrid things in Bim’s ear, and that he was laughing at her, which made her furious.

“I must have eaten something,” he thought.  “It’s the strangest feeling I’ve ever had.  I just won’t take any notice of them.  I’ll go on as though they weren’t there.”  But the strangest thing of all was that he felt as though he himself were being taken.  He had the most comfortable feeling that there was no need for him to give any thought or any kind of trouble.  “You just leave it all to me,” some one said to him.  “I’ve made all the arrangements.”

The lane was hot, and the midday winter sun covered the paths with pools and splashes of colour.  He came out on to the common and saw the village, the long straggling street with the white-washed cottages and the hideous grey-slate roofs; the church tower, rising out of the elms, and the pond, running to the common’s edge, its water chequered with the reflection of the white clouds above it.

The main street of Clinton is not a lovely street; the inland villages and towns of Glebeshire are, unless you love them, amongst the ugliest things in England, but every step caught at Seymour’s heart.

There was Mr. Roscoe’s shop which was also the post-office, and in its window was the same collection of liquorice sticks, saffron buns, reels of cotton, a coloured picture of the royal family, views of Trezent Head, Borhaze Beach, St. Arthe Church, cotton blouses made apparently for dolls, so minute were they, three books, “Ben Hur,” “The Wide, Wide World,” and “St. Elmo,” two bottles of sweets, some eau-de-Cologne, and a large white card with bone buttons on it.  So moving was this collection to Seymour that he stared at the window as though he were in a trance.