k of sheep came out of a field into the lane. He pushed
through them somehow, but they lost him several seconds. More than a
mile still; and he was blown, and his legs beginning to give! Downhill
indeed they went of their own accord, but there was the long run-in,
quite level; and he could hear the train, now slowly puffing its way
along the valley. Then, in spite of exhaustion, his spirit rose. He
would not go in looking like a scarecrow, utterly done, and make a
scene. He must pull himself together at the end, and stroll in--as if
he had come for fun. But how--seeing that at any moment he felt he might
fall flat in the dust, and stay there for ever! And, as he ran, he made
little desperate efforts to mop his face, and brush his clothes. There
were the gates, at last--two hundred yards away. The train, he could
hear no longer. It must be standing in the station. And a sob came from
his overdriven lungs. He heard the guard's whistle as he reached the
gates. Instead of making for the booking-office, he ran along the
paling, where an entrance to the goods'-shed was open, and dashing
through he fell back against the honeysuckle. The engine was just
abreast of him; he snatched at his sleeve and passed it over his face,
to wipe the sweat away. Everything was blurred. He must see--surely
he had not come in time just not to see! He pushed his hands over his
forehead and hair, and spied up dizzily at the slowly passing train.
She was there, at a window! Standing, looking out! He dared not step
forward, for fear of falling, but he put out his hand--She saw him. Yes,
she saw him! Wasn't she going to make a sign? Not one? And suddenly he
saw her tear at her dress, pluck something out, and throw it. It fell
close to his feet. He did not pick it up--he wanted to see her face till
she was gone. It looked wonderful--very proud, and pale. She put her
hand up to her lips. Then everything went blurred again and when he
could see once more, the train had vanished. But at his feet was what
she had thrown. He picked it up! All dry and dark, it was the flower she
had given him in the Tyrol, and stolen back from his buttonhole.

Creeping out, past the goods'-shed, he made his way to a field, and lay
down with his face pressed to that withered thing which still had its
scent....

The asphyxiated speculation in his guardian's eyes had not been without
significance. Mark did not go back to Oxford. He went instead to
Rome--to live in his siste