nd beast, and almost
constitutionally unable to say No, or to claim many things that should
rightly have been his. His whole scheme of life seemed utterly remote
from anything more exciting than missing a train or losing an umbrella
on an omnibus. And when this curious event came upon him he was already
more years beyond forty than his friends suspected or he cared to admit.

John Silence, who heard him speak of his experience more than once, said
that he sometimes left out certain details and put in others; yet they
were all obviously true. The whole scene was unforgettably
cinematographed on to his mind. None of the details were imagined or
invented. And when he told the story with them all complete, the effect
was undeniable. His appealing brown eyes shone, and much of the charming
personality, usually so carefully repressed, came forward and revealed
itself. His modesty was always there, of course, but in the telling he
forgot the present and allowed himself to appear almost vividly as he
lived again in the past of his adventure.

He was on the way home when it happened, crossing northern France from
some mountain trip or other where he buried himself solitary-wise every
summer. He had nothing but an unregistered bag in the rack, and the
train was jammed to suffocation, most of the passengers being unredeemed
holiday English. He disliked them, not because they were his
fellow-countrymen, but because they were noisy and obtrusive,
obliterating with their big limbs and tweed clothing all the quieter
tints of the day that brought him satisfaction and enabled him to melt
into insignificance and forget that he was anybody. These English
clashed about him like a brass band, making him feel vaguely that he
ought to be more self-assertive and obstreperous, and that he did not
claim insistently enough all kinds of things that he didn't want and
that were really valueless, such as corner seats, windows up or down,
and so forth.

So that he felt uncomfortable in the train, and wished the journey were
over and he was back again living with his unmarried sister in Surbiton.

And when the train stopped for ten panting minutes at the little station
in northern France, and he got out to stretch his legs on the platform,
and saw to his dismay a further batch of the British Isles debouching
from another train, it suddenly seemed impossible to him to continue the
journey. Even _his_ flabby soul revolted, and the idea of staying a