like her!'
Another sob. `No, and never will be again!' Then a gush of tears on
the newspaper, which the old man laboriously scanned for details of the
official programme in London. He had not for months read the newspaper
with such a determined effort to understand; indeed, since the beginning
of his illness, no subject, except mushroom-culture, had interested him
so much as the Jubilee. Each time he looked at the sky from his shady
seat in the garden he had thanked God that it was a fine day, as he
might have thanked Him for deliverance from a grave personal disaster.

Except for a few poor flags, there was no sign of gaiety in Trafalgar
Road. The street, the town, and the hearts of those who remained in it,
were wrapped in that desolating sadness which envelops the provinces
when a supreme spectacular national rejoicing is centralised in London.
All those who possessed the freedom, the energy, and the money had gone
to London to witness a sight that, as every one said to every one, would
be unique, and would remain unique for ever--and yet perhaps less to
witness it than to be able to recount to their grandchildren that they
had witnessed it. Many more were visiting nearer holiday resorts for a
day or two days. Those who remained, the poor, the spiritless, the
afflicted, and the captive, felt with mournful keenness the shame of
their utter provinciality, envying the crowds in London with a bitter
envy, and picturing London as the paradise of fashion and splendour.

It was from sheer aimless disgust that Edwin went down Trafalgar Road;
he might as easily have gone up. Having arrived in the town, a
wilderness of shut shops, he gazed a moment at his own, and then entered
it by the side door. He had naught else to do. Had he chosen he could
have spent the whole day in reading, or he might have taken again to his
long-neglected water-colours. But it was not in him to put himself to
the trouble of seeking contentment. He preferred to wallow in utter
desolation, thinking of all the unpleasant things that had ever happened
to him, and occasionally conjecturing what he would have been doing at a
given moment had he accompanied the jolly, the distinguished, and the
enterprising Osmond Orgreave to London.

He passed into the shop, sufficiently illuminated by the white rays that
struck through the diamond holes in the shutters. The morning's
letters--a sparse company--lay forlorn on the floor. He picked them up
a