ching illimitably, and above, the blue
sky, vaster still. There, at least, one could breathe freely, and
stretch one's limbs.

"Why did I ever come back?" he cried.

The blood went thrilling through his veins at the mere thought of those
days in which every minute had been intensely worth living. Then,
indeed, was no restraint or pettiness; then men were hard and firm and
strong. By comparison, people in England appeared so pitifully weak,
vain, paltry, insignificant. What were the privations and the hardships
beside the sense of mastery, the happy adventure, and the carelessness
of life?

But the grey clouds hung over the valley, pregnant with rain. It gave
him a singular feeling of discomfort to see them laden with water, and
yet painfully holding it up.

"I can't stay in this place," he muttered. "I shall go mad."

A sudden desire for flight seized him. The clouds sank lower and lower,
till he imagined he must bend his head to avoid them. If he could only
get away for a little, he might regain his calm. At least, absence, he
thought bitterly, was the only way to restore the old affection between
him and his father.

He went home, and announced that he was going to London.

XVII

After the quiet of Little Primpton, the hurry and the noise of Victoria
were a singular relief to James. Waiting for his luggage, he watched the
various movements of the scene--the trollies pushed along with warning
cries, the porters lifting heavy packages on to the bellied roof of
hansoms, the people running to and fro, the crowd of cabs; and driving
out, he was exhilarated by the confusion in the station yard, and the
intense life, half gay, half sordid, of the Wilton Road. He took a room
in Jermyn Street, according to Major Forsyth's recommendation, and
walked to his club. James had been out of London so long that he came
back with the emotions of a stranger; common scenes, the glitter of
shops, the turmoil of the Circus, affected him with pleased surprise,
and with a child's amusement he paused to stare at the advertisements on
a hoarding. He looked forward to seeing old friends, and on his way down
Piccadilly even expected to meet one or two of them sauntering along.

As a matter of form, James asked at his club whether there were any
letters for him.

"I don't think so, sir," said the porter, but turned to the pigeon-holes
and took out a bundle. He looked them over, and then handed one to
James.

"Hulloa, who's t