ll be all right," said Rickie. "I am Mrs.
Failing's nephew." The boy shook his head. "And you know Mr. Wonham?"
The boy couldn't say he didn't. "Then what's your objection? Why? What
is it? Why not?" But Stephen leant against the time-tables and spoke of
other matters.

Presently the boy said, "Did you say you'd pay my railway-ticket back,
Mr. Wonham?"

"Yes," said a bystander. "Didn't you hear him?"

"I heard him right enough."

Now Stephen laid his hand on the splash-board, saying, "What I want,
though, is this trap here of yours, see, to drive in back myself;" and
as he spoke the bystander followed him in canon, "What he wants, though,
is that there trap of yours, see, to drive hisself back in."

"I've no objection," said the boy, as if deeply offended. For a time he
sat motionless, and then got down, remarking, "I won't rob you of your
sixpence."

"Silly little fool," snapped Rickie, as they drove through the town.

Stephen looked surprised. "What's wrong with the boy? He had to think it
over. No one had asked him to do such a thing before. Next time he'd let
us have the trap quick enough."

"Not if he had driven in for a cabbage instead of wire-netting."

"He never would drive in for a cabbage."

Rickie shuffled his feet. But his irritation passed. He saw that the
little incident had been a quiet challenge to the civilization that he
had known. "Organize." "Systematize." "Fill up every moment," "Induce
esprit de corps." He reviewed the watchwords of the last two years,
and found that they ignored personal contest, personal truces, personal
love. By following them Sawston School had lost its quiet usefulness
and become a frothy sea, wherein plunged Dunwood House, that unnecessary
ship. Humbled, he turned to Stephen and said, "No, you're right. Nothing
is wrong with the boy. He was honestly thinking it out." But Stephen had
forgotten the incident, or else he was not inclined to talk about it.
His assertive fit was over.

The direct road from Salisbury to Cadover is extremely dull. The
city--which God intended to keep by the river; did she not move there,
being thirsty, in the reign of William Rufus?--the city had strayed out
of her own plain, climbed up her slopes, and tumbled over them in ugly
cataracts of brick. The cataracts are still short, and doubtless they
meet or create some commercial need. But instead of looking towards
the cathedral, as all the city should, they look outwards at a pagan
entre