For the past month his mind had been ablaze with an uplifted sense of beauty. He had come down from London by lazy stages, halting here a day and there a day to sketch. Every mile of the way the air had been summer-freighted; the freedom of it had got into his blood. Everywhere that he had gone he had encountered new surprises—gray cathedral cities, sleepy villages, the blue sea of Devon; places and things of which he had only heard, and others which he hadn’t known existed. Dreams were materializing and stepping out to meet him. Eden Row, with its recluse atmosphere, was ceasing to be all his world. His emotions gathered themselves up into an urgent longing—to be young, to live intensely, to miss nothing.
To-day he had crossed Exmoor, black with peat and purple with heather, and was proposing to spend the night at Nether Stowey. He had chosen Nether Stowey because Coleridge had lived there. He had sent word to his mother that it was one of the points to which letters could be forwarded. When he had written his name in the hotel book, the proprietress looked up. “Oh, so you’re the gentleman!”
“Why? Have you got such stacks of letters for me?”
“No. A telegram.”
He tore it open and read, “However late, push on to-night to The Pilgrims? Inn, Glastonbury.” The signature was “Madame Josephine.”
He looked to see at what time it had been received. It had arrived at three o’clock; so it had been waiting for him five hours.
“I’m sorry I shan’t need that room,” he said. “How far is it to Glastonbury?”
“About twenty-three miles. I suppose you’ll stay to dinner, sir? It’s being served.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Without loss of time, he cranked up his engine, jumped into his car and started.