He had never seen Welsley before, though its fame had been familiar to him from childhood.  Thousands of pilgrims had piously visited it, coming from afar; now yet another pilgrim had come from afar, sensitively eager to approach a shrine which held something desired by his soul.

That part of the city which immediately surrounded the station was not attractive, but very soon Dion came into a narrow street and was aware of an ancient flavor, wholly English, and only to be savored thoroughly by an English palate.  In this street he began to taste England.  He passed an old curiosity shop, black and white, with a projecting upper storey, lattice windows with tiny panes, a door of black oak upon which many people had carved their names.  By the door stood a spinning-wheel.  In the window were a tea service of spode and a collection of luster ware.  There were also some Toby jugs.

Dion went in quickly and bought one for Robin.  He carried it unwrapped in his hand as he walked on.  One could do that here, in this intimate, cozy old town of dear England.  He enjoyed the light mist, the moisture in the air.  He had come to hate aridity and the acrid dryness of dust blown by hot winds across great spaces.  The moisture caressed his skin, burnt almost to the color of copper by the African sun.

He came into the High Street.  On its farther side, straight in front of him, the narrowest street he had ever seen, a rivulet of a street, with leaning houses which nearly formed an arcade, stretched to a wonderful gray gateway, immensely massive, with towers at its corners, and rows of shields above its beetling archway.

This must be the entrance to the Precincts.

In the tiny street he met a verger in mufti, an old bent man, with a chin-beard and knotty hands, English in every vein, in every sinew of his amazingly respectable and venerable body.  This worthy he stopped and inquired of him the way to Little Cloisters.

“Where Mrs. Leith and her boy lives, sir?” mouthed the old man, with a kindly gaping smile.

“That’s it.”

“She’s a nice lady,” said the verger.  “We think a lot of her here, especially we Cathedral folk.”

He went on to explain elaborately where Little Cloisters was, and to describe minutely two routes, by either of which it might be come at.  It was evident that he was one of those who love to listen to themselves and who take a pride in words.

Dion decided for the route “round at the back” by Chantrey Lane, through the Green Court, leaving the Deanery on the left and the Bishop’s Palace on the right, and so by way of the Prior’s Gate and the ruins of the Infirmary through the Dark Entry to Little Cloisters.

“You can’t miss it.  The name’s writ on the door in the wall, and a rare old wall it is,” said the venerable man.

Dion thanked him warmly and walked on, while the verger looked after him.

“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s Mrs. Leith’s husband home from the war,” he murmured.  “Looks as if he’d been fighting, he does, and burnt pretty near to a cinder by something, the sun as like as not.”