y
of Tewin Water, the cutting into Hitchin where the train traverses the
chalk, Baldock Church, Royston with its promise of downs, were nothing
in themselves, but dear as stages in the pilgrimage towards the abode
of peace. On the platform he met friends. They had all had pleasant
vacations: it was a happy world. The atmosphere alters.

Cambridge, according to her custom, welcomed her sons with open drains.
Pettycury was up, so was Trinity Street, and navvies peeped out of
King's Parade. Here it was gas, there electric light, but everywhere
something, and always a smell. It was also the day that the wheels fell
off the station tram, and Rickie, who was naturally inside, was among
the passengers who "sustained no injury but a shock, and had as hearty a
laugh over the mishap afterwards as any one."

Tilliard fled into a hansom, cursing himself for having tried to do the
thing cheaply. Hornblower also swept past yelling derisively, with his
luggage neatly piled above his head. "Let's get out and walk," muttered
Ansell. But Rickie was succouring a distressed female--Mrs. Aberdeen.

"Oh, Mrs. Aberdeen, I never saw you: I am so glad to see you--I am so
very glad." Mrs. Aberdeen was cold. She did not like being spoken to
outside the college, and was also distrait about her basket. Hitherto
no genteel eye had even seen inside it, but in the collision its little
calico veil fell off, and there was revealed--nothing. The basket was
empty, and never would hold anything illegal. All the same she was
distrait, and "We shall meet later, sir, I dessy," was all the greeting
Rickie got from her.

"Now what kind of a life has Mrs. Aberdeen?" he exclaimed, as he and
Ansell pursued the Station Road. "Here these bedders come and make us
comfortable. We owe an enormous amount to them, their wages are absurd,
and we know nothing about them. Off they go to Barnwell, and then their
lives are hidden. I just know that Mrs. Aberdeen has a husband, but
that's all. She never will talk about him. Now I do so want to fill in
her life. I see one-half of it. What's the other half? She may have a
real jolly house, in good taste, with a little garden and books, and
pictures. Or, again, she mayn't. But in any case one ought to know. I
know she'd dislike it, but she oughtn't to dislike. After all, bedders
are to blame for the present lamentable state of things, just as much as
gentlefolk. She ought to want me to come. She ought to introduce me to
her hu