upon Olva's mind. His father had always impressed upon him that the
Dunes had ever been lonely--lonely in a world that was contemptible. He
had always until now accepted this idea and found it confirmed on every
side. His six years at Rugby had encouraged him--he had despised, with
his tolerant smile, boys and masters alike; all insincere, all weak, all
to be used, if he wanted them, as he chose to use them. He had thought
often of the lonely knight--that indeed should be his attitude to the
world.

But now, suddenly, as the scattered Cambridge houses with their dull
yellow lights began to creep stealthily through the mist, upon the road,
he knew for the first time that loneliness could be terrible. He
was hurrying now, although he had not formerly been conscious of it,
hurrying into the lights and comforts and noise of the town. There might
only be for him now a night and day of freedom, but, during that time,
he must not, he must not be alone. The patter of Bunker's feet beside
him pleased him. Bunker was now a fact of great importance to him.

And now he could see further. He could see that he must always now, from
the consciousness of the thing that he had done, he alone. The actual
moment of striking his blow had put an impassable gulf between his soul
and all the world. Bodies might touch, hands might be grasped,
voices ring together, always now his soul must be alone. Only, that
Something--of whose Presence he had been, in that instant, aware--could
keep his company. They two . . . they two. . . .

The suburbs of Cambridge had closed about him. Those dreary little
streets, empty as it seemed of all life, facing him sullenly with their
sodden little yellow lamps, shivering, grumbling, he could fancy, in
the chill of that November evening, eyed him with suspicion. He walked
through them now, with his shoulders back, his head up. He could fancy
how, to-morrow, their dull placidity would be wrung by the discovery of
the crime. The little wood would fling its secret into the eager lap
of these decrepit witches; they would crowd to their doors, chatter it,
shout it, pull it to pieces. "Body of an Undergraduate . . . Body of an
Undergraduate. . . ."

He turned out of their cold silence over the bridge that spanned the
river, up the path that crossed the common into the heart of the town,
Here, at once, he was in the hubbub. The little streets were mediaeval
in their narrow space, in their cobbles, in the old black,