He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind the posts.
As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and shouting, waving and screaming.
Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the top of his hansom, flourished his whip.
But as he stood there the shouting died—the crowds faded—alone there on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder.
CHAPTER XV — PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY
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He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited.
As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever. What ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he knew that that at any rate was true; he would never return here again—or he would not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about him regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things in it—the shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire, "Aegidius" (but he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at the photograph of his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the massive shoulders.