“Excuse me, sir; I'm a stranger. I've made a mistake. My ticket's to Seafold, wherever that may be, and I—”
With his nose still glued to the page, the man muttered: “That's all right. You don't need to worry. It's where you're going.”
“But it isn't all right,” Hindwood contradicted with a shade of annoyance. “I don't want to go to Seafold; I want to return to London. What I'm trying to ask you is where can I get out?”
“Lewes, if you think it's worth while.”
“Why shouldn't I think it's worth while?”
The paper rustled testily and was raised a few inches higher. “Because Lewes is almost at Seafold. It's the junction where you change—the one and only stop between here and Brighton.”
Turning away disgustedly, he watched the swiftly changing landscape. Everything that met his eyes was beautiful, with a domestic, thought-out, underlying tenderness. It had all been planned, that was what he felt, by the loving labor of countless generations. In a homeless man like himself the sight created a realization of forlornness. He had traveled five continents and had planted his affections nowhere. It was the same with his human relations. He could reckon his acquaintances by the thousand, yet there was no one to whom he was indispensably dear. By a mental transition, the implication of which he scarcely appreciated, he began to think of Santa.
They were slowing down. He was surprised to discover that an hour had gone by. The man at his side folded up his paper. Now that they were about to part, he considered it safe to be friendly.
“We're coming into Lewes,” he said with a smile. “The Seafold train will be waiting just across the platform. You can't miss it.”
Hindwood thanked him brusquely.