as
disheartened. Even here at Plashers Mead, where he had counted upon
finding a cloister, the disintegration of life's progress had begun. It
would be absurd for him to intrude now upon Guy. He would scarcely be
welcomed now in this June weather. After all, he must go to London; so
he left behind him the long gray house and walked up the slanting hill
that led to the nearest railway station. By the gate where he and Guy
had first seen Plashers Mead, he paused to throw one regret back into
that hollow waterway, one regret for the long gray house on its green
island circled by singing streams.

There were two hours to wait at the station before the train would
arrive. He would be in London about half-past nine. Discovering a meadow
pied with daisies, Michael slept in the sun.

When he woke, the grass was smelling fresh in the shadows, and the sun
was westering. He went across to the station and, during the ten minutes
left before his train came in, walked up and down the platform in the
spangled airs of evening, past the tea-roses planted there, slim tawny
buds and ivory cups dabbled with creamy flushes.

It was dark when Michael reached Paddington, and he felt depressed,
wishing he had come back with the others. No doubt they would all be at
the theater. Or should he drive home and perhaps find them there?

"Know anything about this golf-bag, Bill?" one porter was shouting to
another.

Michael went over to look at the label in case it might be Alan's bag.
But it was an abandoned golf-bag belonging to no one: there were no
initials even painted on the canvas. This forsaken golf-bag doubled
Michael's depression, and though he had always praised Paddington as the
best of railway stations, he thought to-night it was the gloomiest in
London. Then he remembered in a listless way that he had forgotten to
inquire about his suit case, which had been sent after him from Oxford
to Shipcott, the station for Wychford. It must be lying there now with
Manon Lescaut inside. He made arrangements to recapture it, which
consummated his depression. Then he called a hansom and drove to Cheyne
Walk. They had all gone to the Opera, the parlormaid told him. Michael
could not bear to stay at home to-night alone: so, getting back into the
hansom, he told the man to drive to the Oxford Music-hall. It would be
grimly amusing to see on the programs there the theatrical view of St.
Mary's tower.

THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK

BOOK TWO