Now it happened that on this same September day a young man left Brighton and started to walk eastward along the coast.  He had come into Brighton from London the evening before, having to pay a visit to the family of an acquaintance of his who had recently died in Pennsylvania, and who, when dying, had asked him to perform this office on his return to England.  He was no stranger to Brighton; he knew that, if one is obliged to visit the place, it is well to be there under cover of the night and to depart as speedily as possible from amid its vulgar hideousness.  So, not later than eight on the following morning, he had left the abomination behind him, and was approaching Rottingdean.

His destination was Eastbourne; the thought of going thither on foot came to him as he glanced at a map of the coast whilst at breakfast.  The weather was perfect, and the walk would be full of interest.

One would have said that he had a mind very free from care.  For the most part he stepped on at a good round pace, observing well; sometimes he paused, as if merely to enjoy the air.  He was in excellent health; he smiled readily.

At Rottingdean he lingered for awhile.  A soft mist hung all around; sky and sea were of a delicate blurred blue-grey, the former mottled in places.  The sun was not visible, but its light lay in one long gleaming line out on the level water; beyond, all was vapour-veiled.  There were no breakers; now and then a larger ripple than usual splashed on the beach, and that was the only sound the sea gave.  It was full tide; the water at the foot of the cliffs was of a wonderful green, pellucid, delicate, through which the chalk was visible, with dark masses of weed here and there.  Swallows in great numbers flew about the edge, and thistle-down floated everywhere.  From the fields came a tinkle of sheep-bells.

The pedestrian sighed when he rose to continue his progress.  It was noticeable that, as he went on, he lost something of his cheerfulness of manner; probably the early rising and the first taste of exercise had had their effect upon him, and now he was returning to his more wonted self.  The autumn air, the sun-stained mist, the silent sea, would naturally incline to pensiveness one who knew that mood.

The air was unimaginably calm; the thistle-down gave proof that only the faintest breath was stirring.  On the Downs beyond Rottingdean lay two or three bird-catchers, prone as they watched the semicircle of call-birds in cages, and held their hand on the string which closed the nets.  The young man spoke a few words with one of these, curious about his craft.