Gypsy and Ginger moved on, as in a dream. They did not see the London Arabs shinning off to their respective slums; they did not see the London Police resume their respective beats, or the People of the London Streets return to their respective kerbs and cornerstones. With Lionel at their backs, they kept moving on. But it rather seemed as though it was the world, not they, that moved.
The silver water of the Thames and the black towers of Parliament went by them like visions. They saw the fiery smoke of Victorian trains stream by like dragon’s breath. “Move on!” said Lionel. They heard the dogs of Hackbridge bay at the moon, and smelt the Mitcham Lavender. Box Hill rose like a dark wave on their left, and sank away as Leith Hill rose like another on their right. “Move on!” said Lionel. The woods of Surrey dissolved into the woods of Sussex. A river sleeping between pink willow herb and purple loosestrife curled before them. “Move on!” said Lionel. A spur of the Downs rolled up like a green ball. A deep chalk road, cut like the Milky Way in the side of the hill, opened a channel for their feet. “Move on!” said Lionel.
Gypsy and Ginger moved on. At the top of the hill Ginger sat down all of a sudden.
“Lionel,” said she, “I can’t move another step.”
But Lionel did not answer. When they turned their heads he was not there. He had just completed the longest move on the Police Records, and was now speeding back to Scotland Yard to throw up his Roving Commission.
Gypsy and Ginger sat on the top of the Downs till daybreak. As the sun came up, Ginger uttered a cry.
“Oh!” said Ginger. “Look!”
Gypsy looked, and saw that they were on the end of one chain of hills that faced the end of another chain of hills. In the valley that lay between, a river ran very full and level among green grass and gold buttercups.
“There’s such a lot to look at,” said Gypsy. “Particularly what?”