ling horribly alone. Still, he was home at
last, in his own country, and he tried to work up a proper sense of
elation as he waited in the station entrance, watching a porter hoisting
his battered trunks on to a cab.

It was already evening, and the stream of people was flowing inwards
through the gates of the terminus, London's workers returning to those
dreary rows of villas in the suburbs, which, probably, seemed
delightfully peaceful, almost rural, by comparison with the noise and
grime of the City. Some were closing dripping umbrellas; others, having
no umbrellas, shook the rain out of the brims of theirs hats, and turned
down their soaking coat-collars as they came under shelter. All looked
more or less draggled and weary; yet you could see that they were on
their way to their own houses, where there would be someone to welcome
them, someone who had been waiting for them. Suddenly all Jimmy's sense
of loneliness came back, and he shivered again as the cab splashed out
of the muddy station yard, towards the hotel to which he had told his
people to address their letters.

There was a letter from each of his sisters awaiting him, and he tore
them open more eagerly than was his wont. Ida, writing from her home in
Northampton, invited him to come down for a week at some vague future
date; one of the children was unwell, and until it recovered it was
impossible to fix a day. Still, they would be delighted to see him
again. Her letters always had a note of stiffness in them, which was
purely unintentional, or rather, purely natural, reflecting the one
salient point in her character.

May's letter began with an apology. They were so sorry they could not
ask him down that night; but they had a large dinner party on, and he
would have made an odd man. Doubtless, too, he would be tired after his
journey and disinclined for such a function. The following day, however,
they would be glad to have him. It was forty minutes' run from Victoria
Station, and she would send the car to meet him at the other end.

Jimmy thrust the letters into his pocket, and followed his luggage up to
his room, which was a perfect example of its kind, containing the
irreducible minimum of furniture an hotel guest could require, and
having, as its sole wall decoration, a notice imploring you to switch
out the electric light when you did not actually require it. He was
disappointed, though not annoyed. The excuses appeared genuine, if
rather inadequ