“All right,” he comforted Turner. “I’ll go up to-morrow morning by the nine-fifteen. You can come up later with the things. I won’t be coming back here for some time, I expect. Not for a long time.”
“I shall walk to Hungerford,” he said, “so call me early....”
CHAPTER XX
1
But, of course, Turner did not need to call him; and Ivor was striding along the road to Hungerford by eight o’clock. He had plenty of time in which to do the just over two miles before the train was due to leave, but his impatience needed swift movement.
Ivor never could loiter: not even on a fine morning in Berkshire; and even in his pacings up and down he would sometimes go at a furious rate and find himself perspiring—about nothing at all! Ivor didn’t, couldn’t, notice the country when there was anything on his mind: it was an inability, like that of those tiresome people who can not appreciate poetry unless it’s read to them by some one they like. A mountain would have to be an enormous mountain before Ivor, with anything on his mind, could become aware of it; and even then he would be more aware of it if there was a man on top of it. A landscape would have to be an amazing landscape before Ivor, with anything on his mind, could become aware of it; and even then he would feel it more acutely if there was a figure against the landscape. People were important to Ivor; that is why he was a solitary, and that is why men become solitaries, because people are important to them. People could make places beautiful or ugly for Ivor.... And now he simply tore along the road to Hungerford as though it had been a street in a slum, and through the fine September mist as though he hated cigarette smoke. And as he strode along his mind was gay on life and Virginia, and his hat swung from his hand, and his thick hair shone black and brown with the water of its brushing.
It was about a mile from Hungerford that, as he turned the corner which led to a path across the fields directly to the station, he almost collided with the little telegraph-boy on his bicycle. The boy jumped off sulkily, and tugged at his pocket.
“Tel’gram,” said the boy.
Ivor read: “Please come back.—Virginia.” And he saw that it had been sent off at 5.45 the day before.
“Why didn’t I get this last night?” he asked sharply.