be in the motor trade. Gregson had vanished utterly.
Everything demanded that he should be writing for the Rationalist
Press, but where was he? Anstey was at the Bar, Rayner a subaltern in
India. 'Granny' had recently been head of Berney's, Granny whom Martin
had loathed and swiped. It seemed unreal and impossible. But now, as
he looked back over that gap of five years, he realised that Elfrey
with all its troubles and its narrowness had been kind. The avenging
of Gideon and the night of pitchers, the bowling of "googlies," the
friendship of Finney ... astonishing that things so good should have
slipped away. Lazily chewing the long sweet stems of grass, he
refought a hundred skirmishes.

More recent memories came floating down upon the stream. Galer and his
'deemagogues,' the Push, Chard and his career: very soon he would be
paying a long farewell to all this world of evanescence. For such a
world it was, good but transitory. It was not real as life's work
would be real. True that Chard had taken his Union career as seriously
as death itself, true that the Push had been serious about their
discussions, those night-long tussles about God and Woman and the
Universe: and anything taken seriously has value of a kind. But had
their value been greater than that of an amusing prologue or a
curtain-raiser which it would have been unfortunate to miss? It was
good that these things should have been: it was not good that they
should be for ever.

And Freda? World of evanescence again! She had passed so utterly away
that Martin could scarcely believe in the events and emotions of the
winter. He had no regrets, and he believed that she had none: of late
his plans and prospects had moved at such a pace that wounds could not
linger and were easily forgotten. They had rendered each other mutual
service and mutual relief. Once he had thought that he loved, but now
he knew of his mistake: Freda had spoken the obvious truth when she
said: "You aren't really in love with me, you're in love with love."
He had wanted sympathy and in his quest had idealised the first woman
who gave it him. Only a fortnight ago his uncle had said: "Remember
you're still only twenty-three. You haven't found out everything about
life--or love." He had said it kindly and he had been right.

Now indeed he had fiercely reacted against his search for sympathy.
Surely a man should be able to face his work and go through with it,
even if it wa