osition that it was a
terrible thing not to be a gentleman and the son of a gentleman. He grew
very critical of his own dress and wished that he were not compelled to
wear a sailor-top that was slightly shabby. Once Mr. and Mrs. Wagland
accompanied them to church on a Sunday morning, and Michael was
horrified. People would inevitably think that he was the son of Mr.
Wagland. What a terrible thing that would be. He loitered farther behind
than ever, and would liked to have killed Mr. Wagland when he offered
him the half of his hymn-book. This incident seemed to compromise him
finally, to drag him down from the society of Miss Carthew to a degraded
status of unutterable commonness. Mr. Wagland would persist in digging
him with his elbow and urging him to sing up. Worse even, he once said
quite audibly 'Spit it out, sonny.' Michael reeled with shame.

September arrived at last, and then Michael realized suddenly that he
would have to make the journey to Hampshire alone. This seemed to him
the most astonishing adventure of his life. He surveyed his existence
from the earliest dawn of consciousness to the last blush caused by
Nurse's abominable habits, and could see no parallel of daring. He was
about to enter upon a direct relationship with the world of men. He
would have to enquire of porters and guards; he would have to be polite
without being prodded to ladies sitting opposite. No doubt they would
ask questions of him and he would have to answer distinctly. And beyond
this immediate encounter with reality was School. He had not grasped how
near he was to the first morning. A feeling of hopelessness, of
inability to grapple with the facts of life seized him. Growing old was
a very desperate business after all. How remote he was getting from
Nurse, how far away from the dingy solitude which had so long oppressed
his spirit. Already she seemed unimportant and already he could almost
laugh at the absurdity of being mistaken for a relation of hers. The
world was opening her arms and calling to him.

On the day before he was to set out for Hampshire, he and Nurse and
Stella and Mr. Wagland and Mrs. Wagland drove in a wagonette to picnic
somewhere in the country behind the sea. It had been a dry August and
the rolling chalk downs over which they walked were uniformly brown. The
knapweed was stunted and the scabious blooms drooped towards the dusty
pasture. Only the flamy ladies' slippers seemed appropriate to the miles
of heat