ld that I had once belonged
to--the gay, free, jolly world of work and laughter that I had thought
lost to me for ever. I felt so absurdly contented that for a little
while I almost forgot about George.

The only stop we made was at Exeter. There were not many people on the
platform, and I had just decided that I was not going to be disturbed,
when suddenly a fussy-looking little old gentleman emerged from the
booking office, followed by a porter carrying his bag. They came
straight for my carriage.

The old gentleman reached it first, and puckering up his face, peered
in at me through the window. Apparently the inspection was a success.

"This will do," he observed. "Leave my bag on the seat, and go and see
that my portmanteau is safely in the van. Then if you come back here I
will give you threepence for your trouble."

Dazzled by the prospect, the porter hurried off on his errand, and
with a little grunt the old gentleman began to hoist himself in
through the door. I put out my hand to assist him.

"Thank you, sir, thank you," he remarked breathlessly. "I am extremely
obliged to you, sir."

Then, gathering up his bag, he shuffled along the carriage, and
settled himself down in the opposite corner.

I was quite pleased with the prospect of a fellow passenger,
unexciting as this particular one promised to be. I have either read
or heard it stated that when people first come out of prison they feel
so shy and so lost that their chief object is to avoid any sort of
society at all. I can only say that in my case this was certainly not
true. I wanted to talk to every one: I felt as if whole volumes
of conversation had been accumulating inside me during the long
speechless months of my imprisonment.

It was the old gentleman, however, who first broke our silence.
Lowering his copy of the _Times_, he looked up at me over the top of
his gold-rimmed spectacles.

"I wonder, sir," he said, "whether you would object to having that
window closed; I am extremely susceptible to draughts."

"Why, of course not," I replied cheerfully, and suiting my action to
my words I jerked up the sash.

This prompt attention to his wishes evidently pleased him; for he
thanked me civilly, and then, after a short pause, added some becoming
reflection on the subject of the English spring.

It was not exactly an inspiring opening, but I made the most of it.
Without appearing intrusive I managed to keep the conversation going,
and in a