A week later, Antony was sitting in a first-class carriage on his way from Plymouth to Waterloo. He gazed through the window, his mind filled with various emotions.

Uppermost was the memory of the voyage and the Duchessa. The memory already appeared to him almost as a vivid and extraordinarily beautiful dream, though reason assured him to the contrary. The whole events of the last month, and even his present position in the train, appeared to him intangible and unreal. It seemed a dream self, rather than the real Antony, who was gazing from the window at the landscape which was slipping past him; who was looking out on the English fields, the English woods, and the English cottages past which the train was tearing. He saw gardens ablaze with flowers; bushes snowy with hawthorn; horses and cows standing idly in the shadow of the trees; and, now and again, small, trimly-kept country stations, looking for all the world like prim schoolgirls in gay print dresses.

He glanced from the window to the rack opposite to him, where his portmanteau was lying. That, at all events, was tangible, real, and familiar. It struck the sole familiar note in the extraordinary unfamiliarity of everything around him. He looked at his own initials painted on it, slowly tracing them in his mind. He pulled out his pocket-book, and took from it the letter which had altered the whole perspective of his life. He could almost see the African stoep as he looked at it, feel the heat of the African sun, hear the occasional chirping of the grasshoppers. Age-old the memory appeared, caught from bygone centuries. And it was only a month ago. Replacing it in the book, his eye fell upon a small piece of pasteboard. The Duchessa had given it to him that morning. Her name was printed on it, and below she had written a few pencilled words,—her address in Scotland. She was remaining in Plymouth for a day or so, before going North. He was to write to her at the Scotland address, and let her know where she could acquaint him with her further movements, and the actual date of her return to the Manor House. That, too, was tangible and real,—that small piece of white pasteboard. And, then, a little movement beside him, and a long quivering sigh of content brought back to him the most tangible thing of all—Josephus. Josephus, who was sleeping the sleep of the contented, just after a frenzied and rapturous reunion with his deity.

Oh, of course it was all real, and it was he, Antony, his very self, who was sitting in the train, the train which was rushing through the good old English country, carrying him towards London and the answer to the riddle contained in that most amazing of letters.

“It isn’t a dream, Josephus,” he assured the sleepy puppy. “I am real, you are real, the train is real, England is real, and Heaven be praised—the Duchessa is real.” After which act of assurance he turned his attention once more to the window.

And now, the dream sense dispelled, he found long-forgotten memories awaken within him, memories of early boyhood, aroused by the sight of some old church tower, of some wood lying on a hillside, of some amber stream rippling past rush-grown banks. He hugged the memories to his soul, rejoicing in them. They brought a dozen trivial little incidents to his mind. He could hear his old nurse’s voice warning him not to lean against the door of the carriage. He could feel his small nose pressed against the window-pane, his small hand rubbing the glass where it had been dimmed by his breath. He could hear the crackle of paper bags, as sandwiches and buns were produced for his refreshment; he could taste the ham between the pieces of bread and butter; and he could see a small boy, with one eye on his nurse, pushing a piece of fat between the cushions of the seat and the side of the carriage. This last memory evoked a little chuckle of laughter. That nurse had been a strong disciplinarian.

The memories linked together, forming a more connected whole. He recalled places farther afield than those caught sight of from the window of the train. He remembered a copse yellow with primroses, a pond where he had fished for sticklebacks, a bank with a robin’s nest in it. He remembered a later visit with an aunt. He must then have been fourteen or thereabouts. There had been a small girl, staying with her aunt at a neighbouring farm, who had accompanied him on his rambles. Despite her tender age—she couldn’t have been more than five years old—she had been the inventor of their worst escapades. It was she who had egged him on to the attempt to cross the pond on a log of wood, racing round it to shout encouragement from the opposite side. The timely advent of one of the farm-labourers alone had saved him from a watery grave. It was she who had invented the bows and arrows with which he had accidentally shot the prize bantam, and it was she who had insisted on his going with her to search for pheasants’ eggs, a crime for which he barely escaped the penalty of the law.

He remembered her as a fragile fair-haired child, with a wide-eyed innocence of expression, utterly at variance with her true character. In spite of her nobly shouldering her full share of the blame, he had invariably been considered sole culprit, which he most assuredly was not, though weight of years should have taught him better. But then, one could hardly expect the Olympians to lay any measure of such crimes at the door of a grey-eyed, fair-haired angel. And that was what she had appeared to mere superficial observation. It required extreme perspicacity of vision, or great intimacy, to arrive at anything a trifle nearer the truth. He sought in the recesses of his memory for her name. That it had suited her admirably, and that it was monosyllabic, was all he could remember. After a few minutes fruitless search, he abandoned it as hopeless, and pulled pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.

Presently he saw the square tower and pinnacles of Exeter Cathedral above some trees, and the train ran into the station. Antony watched the people on the platform with interest. They were English, and it was thirteen years since he had been in England. He listened to the fragmentary English sentences he heard, finding pleasure in the sound. He marvelled idly at the lack of colour in the scene before him. The posters on the walls alone struck a flamboyant note. Yet there was something restful in the monochrome of the dresses, the dull smoke-griminess of the station. At all events it was a contrast to the vivid colouring of the African veldt.

Despite his interest in his fellow humans, however, he found himself devoutly trusting his privacy would remain undisturbed, and it was with a sense of relief that he felt the train glide slowly out of the station, leaving him the sole occupant of his compartment.

Later, he saw the spire of Salisbury Cathedral. Again fortune favoured him in the matter of privacy, and presently drowsiness descended on his eyelids, which was not fully dispelled till the train ran into the gloom of Waterloo station.