section 1

too soon the morning came when mr. barnstaple was to look his last upon the fair hills of utopia and face the great experiment to which he had given himself. he had been loth to sleep and he had slept little that night, and in the early dawn he was abroad, wearing for the last time the sandals and the light white robe that had become his utopian costume. presently he would have to struggle into socks and boots and trousers and collar; the strangest gear. it would choke him he felt, and he stretched his bare arms to the sky and yawned and breathed his lungs full. the valley below still drowsed beneath a coverlet of fleecy mists; he turned his face uphill, the sooner to meet the sun.

never before had he been out among the utopian flowers at such an early hour; it was amusing to see how some of the great trumpets still drooped asleep and how many of the larger blossoms were furled and hung. many of the leaves too were wrapped up, as limp as new-hatched moths. the gossamer spiders had been busy and everything was very wet with dew. a great tiger came upon him suddenly out of a side path and stared hard at him for some moments with round yellow eyes. perhaps it was trying to remember the forgotten instincts of its breed.

some way up the road he passed under a vermilion archway and went up a flight of stone stairs that promised to bring him earlier to the crest.

a number of friendly little birds, very gaily coloured, flew about him for a time and one perched impudently upon his shoulder, but when he put up his hand to caress it it evaded him and flew away. he was still ascending the staircase when the sun rose. it was as if the hillside slipped off a veil of grey and blue and bared the golden beauty of its body.

mr. barnstaple came to a landing place upon the staircase and stopped, and stood very still watching the sunrise search and quicken the brooding deeps of the valley below.

far away, like an arrow shot from east to west, appeared a line of dazzling brightness on the sea.

section 2

“serenity,” he murmured. “beauty. all the works of men — in perfect harmony . . . minds brought to harmony. . . . ”

according to his journalistic habit he tried over phrases. “an energetic peace . . . confusions dispersed. . . . a world of spirits, crystal clear. . . . ”

what was the use of words?

for a time he stood quite still listening, for from some slope above a lark had gone heavenward, spraying sweet notes. he tried to see that little speck of song and was blinded by the brightening blue of the sky.

presently the lark came down and ceased. utopia was silent, except for a burst of childish laughter somewhere on the hillside below.

it dawned upon mr. barnstaple how peaceful was the utopian air in comparison with the tormented atmosphere of earth. here was no yelping and howling of tired or irritated dogs, no braying, bellowing, squealing and distressful outcries of uneasy beasts, no farmyard clamour, no shouts of anger, no barking and coughing, no sounds of hammering, beating, sawing, grinding, mechanical hooting, whistling, screaming and the like, no clattering of distant trains, clanking of automobiles or other ill-contrived mechanisms; the tiresome and ugly noises of many an unpleasant creature were heard no more. in utopia the ear like the eye was at peace. the air which had once been a mud of felted noises was now — a purified silence. such sounds as one heard lay upon it like beautiful printing on a generous sheet of fine paper.

his eyes returned to the landscape below as the last fleecy vestiges of mist dissolved away. water-tanks, roads, bridges, buildings, embankments, colonnades, groves, gardens, channels, cascades and fountains grew multitudinously clear, framed under a branch of dark foliage from a white-stemmed tree that gripped a hold among the rocks at his side.

“three thousand years ago this was a world like ours. . . . think of it — in a hundred generations. . . . in three thousand years we might make our poor waste of an earth, jungle and desert, slag-heap and slum, into another such heaven of beauty and power. . . .

“worlds they are — similar, but not the same. . . .

“if i could tell them what i have seen! . . .

“suppose all men could have this vision of utopia. . . .

“they would not believe it if i told them. no . . .

“they would bray like asses at me and bark like dogs! . . . they will have no world but their own world. it hurts them to think of any world but their own. nothing can be done that has not been done already. to think otherwise would be humiliation. . . . death, torture, futility — anything but humiliation! so they must sit among their weeds and excrement, scratching and nodding sagely at one another, hoping for a good dog-fight and to gloat upon pain and effort they do not share, sure that mankind stank, stinks and must always stink, that stinking is very pleasant indeed, and that there is nothing new under the sun. . . . ”

his thoughts were diverted by two young girls who came running one after the other up the staircase. one was dark even to duskiness and her hands were full of blue flowers; the other who pursued her was a year or so younger and golden fair. they were full of the limitless excitement of young animals at play. the former one was so intent upon the other that she discovered mr. barnstaple with a squeak of surprise after she had got to his landing. she stared at him with a quick glance of inquiry, flashed into impudent roguery, flung two blue flowers in his face and was off up the steps above. her companion, intent on capture, flew by. they flickered up the staircase like two butterflies of buff and pink; halted far above and came together for a momentary consultation about the stranger, waved hands to him and vanished.

mr. barnstaple returned their greeting and remained cheered.

section 3

the view-point to which lychnis had directed mr. barnstaple stood out on the ridge between the great valley in which he had spent the last few days and a wild and steep glen down which ran a torrent that was destined after some hundred miles of windings to reach the river of the plain. the view-point was on the crest of a crag, it had been built out upon great brackets so that it hung sheer over a bend in the torrent below; on the one hand was mountainous scenery and a rich and picturesque foam of green vegetation in the depths, on the other spread the broad garden spaces of a perfected landscape. for a time mr. barnstaple scrutinized this glen into which he looked for the first time. five hundred feet or so below him, so that he felt that he could have dropped a pebble upon its outstretched wings, a bustard was soaring.

many of the trees below he thought must be fruit trees, but they were too far off to see distinctly. here and there he could distinguish a footpath winding up among the trees and rocks, and among the green masses were little pavilions in which he knew the wayfarer might rest and make tea for himself and find biscuits and such-like refreshment and possibly a couch and a book. the whole world, he knew, was full of such summer-houses and kindly shelters. . . .

after a time he went back to the side of this view-place up which he had come, and regarded the great valley that went out towards the sea. the word pisgah floated through his mind. for indeed below him was the promised land of human desires. here at last, established and secure, were peace, power, health, happy activity, length of days and beauty. all that we seek was found here and every dream was realized.

how long would it be yet — how many centuries or thousands of years — before a man would be able to stand upon some high place on earth also and see mankind triumphant and wholly and for ever at peace? . . .

he folded his arms under him upon the parapet and mused profoundly.

there was no knowledge in this utopia of which earth had not the germs, there was no power used here that earthlings might not use. here, but for ignorance and darkness and the spites and malice they permit, was earth today. . . .

towards such a world as this utopia mr. barnstaple had been striving weakly all his life. if the experiment before him succeeded, if presently he found himself alive again on earth, it would still be towards utopia that his life would be directed. and he would not be alone. on earth there must be thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, who were also struggling in their minds and acts to find a way of escape for themselves and for their children from the disorders and indignities of the age of confusion, hundreds of thousands who wanted to put an end to wars and waste, to heal and educate and restore, to set the banner of utopia over the shams and divisions that waste mankind.

“yes, but we fail,” said mr. barnstaple an walked fretfully to aid fro. “tens and hundred of thousands of men and women! and we achieve so little! perhaps every young man and every young woman has had some dream at least of serving and bettering the world. and we are scattered and wasted, and the old things and the foul things, customs, delusions, habits, tolerated treasons, base immediacies, triumph over us!”

he went to the parapet again and stood with his foot on a seat, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, staring at the loveliness of this world he was to leave so soon. . . .

“we could do it.”

and suddenly it was borne in upon mr. barnstaple that he belonged now soul and body to the revolution, to the great revolution that is afoot on earth; that marches and will never desist nor rest again until old earth is one city and utopia set up therein. he knew clearly that this revolution is life, and that all other living is a trafficking of life with death. and as this crystallized out in his mind he knew instantly that so presently it would crystallize out in the minds of countless others of those hundreds of thousands of men and women on earth whom minds are set towards utopia.

he stood up. he began walking to and fro. “we shall do it,” he said.

earthly thought was barely awakened as yet to the task and possibilities before mankind. all human history so far had been no more than the stirring of a sleeper, a gathering discontent, a rebellion against the limitations set upon life, the unintelligent protest of thwarted imaginations. all the conflicts and insurrections and revolutions that had ever been on earth were but indistinct preludes of the revolution that has still to come. when he had started out upon this fantastic holiday mr. barnstaple realized he had been in a mood of depression; earthly affairs had seemed utterly confused and hopeless to him; but now from the view-point of utopia achieved, and with his health renewed, he could see plainly enough how steadily men on earth were feeling their way now, failure after failure, towards the opening drive of the final revolution. he could see how men in his own lifetime had been struggling out of such entanglements as the lie of monarchy, the lies of dogmatic religion and dogmatic morality towards public self-respect and cleanness of mind and body. they struggled now also towards international charity and the liberation of their common economic life from a network of pretences, dishonesties and impostures. there is confusion in all struggles; retractions and defeats; but the whole effect seen from the calm height of utopia was one of steadfast advance. . . .

there were blunders, there were set-backs, because the forces of revolution still worked in the twilight. the great effort and the great failure of the socialist movement to create a new state in the world had been contemporaneous with mr. barnstaple’s life; socialism had been the gospel of his boyhood; he had participated in its hopes, its doubts, its bitter internal conflicts. he had seen the movement losing sweetness and gathering force in the narrowness of the marxist formulae. he had seen it sacrifice its constructive power for militant intensity. in russia he had marked its ability to overthrow and its inability to plan or build. like every liberal spirit in the world he had shared the chill of bolshevik presumption and bolshevik failure, and for a time it had seemed to him that this open bankruptcy of a great creative impulse was no less and no more than a victory for reaction, that it gave renewed life to all the shams, impostures, corruptions, traditional anarchies and ascendencies that restrain and cripple human life. . . . but now from this high view-point in utopia he saw clearly that the phoenix of revolution flames down to ashes only to be born again. while the noose is fitted round the teacher’s neck the youths are reading his teaching. revolutions arise and die; the great revolution comes incessantly and inevitably.

the time was near — and in what life was left to him, he himself might help to bring it nearer — when the forces of that last and real revolution would work no longer in the twilight but in the dawn, and a thousand sorts of men and women now far apart and unorganized and mutually antagonistic would be drawn together by the growth of a common vision of the world desired. the marxist had wasted the forces of revolution for fifty years; he had had no vision; he had had only a condemnation for established things. he had estranged all scientific and able men by his pompous affectation of the scientific; he had terrified them by his intolerant orthodoxy; his delusion that all ideas are begotten by material circumstances had made him negligent of education and criticism. he had attempted to build social unity on hate and rejected every other driving force for the bitterness of a class war. but now, in its days of doubt and exhaustion, vision was returning to socialism, and the dreary spectacle of a proletarian dictatorship gave way once more to utopia, to the demand for a world fairly and righteously at peace, its resources husbanded and exploited for the common good, its every citizen freed not only from servitude but from ignorance, and its surplus energies directed steadfastly to the increase of knowledge and beauty. the attainment of that vision by more and more minds was a thing now no longer to be prevented. earth would tread the path utopia had trod. she too would weave law, duty and education into a larger sanity than man has ever known. men also would presently laugh at the things they had feared, and brush aside the impostures that had overawed them and the absurdities that had tormented and crippled their lives. and as this great revolution was achieved and earth wheeled into daylight, the burthen of human miseries would lift, and courage oust sorrow from the hearts of men. earth, which was now no more than a wilderness, sometimes horrible and at best picturesque, a wilderness interspersed with weedy scratchings for food and with hovels and slums and slag-heaps, earth too would grow rich with loveliness and fair as this great land was fair. the sons of earth also, purified from disease, sweet-minded and strong and beautiful, would go proudly about their conquered planet and lift their daring to the stars.

“given the will,” said mr. barnstaple. “given only the will.” . . .

section 4

from some distant place came the sound of a sweet-toned bell striking the hour.

the time for the service to which he was dedicated was drawing near. he must descend, and be taken to the place where the experiment was to be made.

he took one last look at the glen and then went back to the broad prospect of the great valley, with its lakes and tanks and terraces, its groves and pavilions, its busy buildings and high viaducts, its wide slopes of sunlit cultivation, its universal gracious amenity. “farewell utopia,” he said, and was astonished to discover how deeply his emotions were stirred.

“dear dream of hope and loveliness, farewell!”

he stood quite still in a mood of sorrowful deprivation too deep for tears.

it seemed to him that the spirit of utopia bent down over him like a goddess, friendly, adorable — and inaccessible.

his very mind stood still.

“never,” he whispered at last, “for me. . . . except to serve. . . . no. . . . ”

presently he began to descend the steps that wound down from the view-point. for a time he noted little of the things immediately about him. then the scent of roses invaded his attention, and he found himself walking down a slanting pergola covered with great white roses and very active with little green birds. he stopped short and stood looking up at the leaves, light-saturated, against the sky. he put up his hands and drew down one of the great blossoms until it touched his cheek.

section 5

they took mr. barnstaple back by aeroplane to the point upon the glassy road where he had first come into utopia. lychnis came with him and crystal, who was curious to see what would be done.

a group of twenty or thirty people, including sungold, awaited him. the ruined laboratory of arden and greenlake had been replaced by fresh buildings, and there were additional erections on the further side of the road; but mr. barnstaple could recognize quite clearly the place where mr. catskill had faced the leopard and where mr. burleigh had accosted him. several new kinds of flowers were now out, but the blue blossoms that had charmed him on arrival still prevailed. his old car, the yellow peril, looking now the clumsiest piece of ironmongery conceivable, stood in the road. he went and examined it. it seemed to be in perfect order; it had been carefully oiled and the petrol tank was full.

in a little pavilion were his bag and all his earthly clothes. they were very clean and they had been folded and pressed, and he put them on. his shirt seemed tight across his chest and his collar decidedly tight, and his coat cut him a little under the arms. perhaps these garments had shrunken when they were disinfected. he packed his bag and crystal put it in the car for him.

sungold explained very simply all that mr. barnstaple had to do. across the road, close by the restored laboratory, stretched a line as thin as gossamer. “steer your car to that and break it,” he said. “that is all you have to do. then take this red flower and put it down exactly where your wheel tracks show you have entered your own world.”

mr. barnstaple was left beside the car. the utopians went back twenty or thirty yards and stood in a circle about him. for a few moments everyone was still.

section 6

mr. barnstaple got into his car, started his engine, let it throb for a minute and then put in the clutch. the yellow car began to move towards the line of gossamer. he made a gesture with one hand which lychnis answered. sungold and others of the utopians also made friendly movements. but crystal was watching too intently for any gesture.

“good-bye, crystal!” cried mr. barnstaple, and the boy responded with a start.

mr. barnstaple accelerated, set his teeth and, in spite of his will to keep them open, shut his eyes as he touched the gossamer line. came that sense again of unendurable tension and that sound like the snapping of a bow-string. he had an irresistible impulse to stop — go back. he took his foot from the accelerator, and the car seemed to fall a foot or so and stopped so heavily and suddenly that he was jerked forward against the steering wheel. the oppression lifted. he opened his eyes and looked about him.

the car was standing in a field from which the hay had recently been carried. he was tilted on one side because of a roll in the ground. a hedge in which there was an open black gate separated this hay-field from the high road. close at hand was a board advertisement of some maidenhead hotel. on the far side of the road were level fields against a background of low wooded hills. away to the left was a little inn. he turned his head and saw windsor castle in the remote distance rising above poplar-studded meadows. it was not, as his utopians had promised him, the exact spot of his departure from our earth, but it was certainly less than a hundred yards away.

he sat still for some moments, mentally rehearsing what he had to do. then he started the yellow peril again and drove it close up to the black gate.

he got out and stood with the red flower in his hand. he had to go back to the exact spot at which he had re-entered this universe and put that flower down there. it would be quite easy to determine that point by the track the car had made in the stubble. but he felt an extraordinary reluctance to obey these instructions. he wanted to keep this flower. it was the last thing, the only thing, he had now from that golden world. that and the sweet savour on his hands.

it was extraordinary that he had brought no more than this with him. why had he not brought a lot of flowers? why had they given him nothing, no little thing, out of all their wealth of beauty? he wanted intensely to keep this flower. he was moved to substitute a spray of honeysuckle from the hedge close at hand. but then he remembered that that would be infected stuff for them. he must do as he was told. he walked back along the track of his car to its beginning, stood for a moment hesitating, tore a single petal from that glowing bloom, and then laid down the rest of the great flower carefully in the very centre of his track. the petal he put in his pocket. then with a heavy heart he went back slowly to his car and stood beside it, watching that star of almost luminous red.

his grief and emotion were very great. he was bitterly sorrowful now at having left utopia.

it was evident the great drought was still going on, for the field and the hedges were more parched and brown than he had ever seen an english field before. along the road lay a thin cloud of dust that passing cars continually renewed. this old world seemed to him to be full of unlovely sights and sounds and odours already half forgotten. there was the honking of distant cars, the uproar of a train, a thirsty cow mourning its discomfort; there was the irritation of dust in his nostrils and the smell of sweltering tar; there was barbed wire in the hedge near by and along the top of the black gate, and horse-dung and scraps of dirty paper at his feet. the lovely world from which he had been driven had shrunken now to a spot of shining scarlet.

something happened very quickly. it was as if a hand appeared for a moment and took the flower. in a moment it had gone. a little eddy of dust swirled and drifted and sank. . . .

it was the end.

at the thought of the traffic on the main road mr. barnstaple stooped down so as to hide his face from the passers-by. for some minutes he was unable to regain his self-control. he stood with his arm covering his face, leaning against the shabby brown hood of his car. . . .

at last this gust of sorrow came to an end and he could get in again, start up the engine and steer into the main road.

he turned eastward haphazard. he left the black gate open behind him. he went along very slowly for as yet he had formed no idea of whither he was going. he began to think that probably in this old world of ours he was being sought for as a person who had mysteriously disappeared. someone might discover him and he would become the focus of a thousand impossible questions. that would be very tiresome and disagreeable. he had not thought of this in utopia. in utopia it had seemed quite possible that he could come back into earth unobserved. now on earth that confidence seemed foolish. he saw ahead of him the board of a modest tea-room. it occurred that he might alight there, see a newspaper, ask a discreet question or so, and find out what had been happening to the world and whether he had indeed been missed.

he found a table already laid for tea under the window. in the centre of the room a larger table bore an aspidistra in a big green pot and a selection of papers, chiefly out-of-date illustrated papers. but there was also a copy of the morning’s daily express.

he seized upon this eagerly, fearful that he would find it full of the mysterious disappearance of mr. burleigh, lord barralonga, mr. rupert catskill, mr. hunker, father amerton and lady stella, not to mention the lesser lights. . . . gradually as he turned it over his fears vanished. there was not a word about any of them!

“but surely,” he protested to himself, now clinging to his idea, “their friends must have missed them!”

he read through the whole paper. of one only did he find mention and that was the last name he would have expected to find — mr. freddy mush. the princess de modena–frascati (nee higgisbottom) prize for english literature had been given away to nobody in particular by mr. graceful gloss owing to “the unavoidable absence of mr. freddy mush abroad.”

the problem of why there had been no hue and cry for the others opened a vast field of worldly speculation to mr. barnstaple in which he wandered for a time. his mind went back to that bright red blossom lying among the cut stems of the grass in the mown field and to the hand that had seemed to take it. with that the door that had opened so marvellously between that strange and beautiful world and our own had closed again.

wonder took possession of mr. barnstaple’s mind. that dear world of honesty and health was beyond the utmost boundaries of our space, utterly inaccessible to him now for evermore; and yet, as he had been told, it was but one of countless universes that move together in time, that lie against one another, endlessly like the leaves of a book. and all of them are as nothing in the endless multitudes of systems and dimensions that surround them. “could i but rotate my arm out of the limits set to it,” one of the utopians had said to him; “i could thrust it into a thousand universes.” . . .

a waitress with his teapot recalled him to mundane things.

the meal served to him seemed tasteless and unclean. he drank the queer brew of the tea because he was thirsty but he ate scarcely a mouthful.

presently he chanced to put his hand in his pocket and touched something soft. he drew out the petal he had torn from the red flower. it had lost its glowing red, and as he held it out in the stuffy air of the room it seemed to writhe as it shrivelled and blackened; its delicate scent gave place to a mawkish odour.

“manifestly,” he said. “i should have expected this.”

he dropped the lump of decay on his plate, then picked it up again and thrust it into the soil in the pot of the aspidistra.

he took up the daily express again and turned it over, trying to recover his sense of this world’s affairs.

section 7

for a long time mr. barnstaple meditated over the daily express in the tea-room at colnebrook. his thoughts went far so that presently the newspaper slipped to the ground unheeded. he roused himself with a sigh and called for his bill. paying, he became aware of a pocket-book still full of pound notes. “this will be the cheapest holiday i have ever had,” he thought. “i’ve spent no money at all.” he inquired for the post-office, because he had a telegram to send.

two hours later he stopped outside the gate of his little villa at sydenham. he set it open — the customary bit of stick with which he did this was in its usual place — and steered the yellow peril with the dexterity of use and went past the curved flower-bed to the door of his shed. mrs. barnstaple appeared in the porch.

“alfred! you’re back at last?”

“yes, i’m back. you got my telegram?”

“ten minutes ago. where have you been all this time? it’s more than a month.”

“oh! just drifting about and dreaming. i’ve had a wonderful time.”

“you ought to have written. you really ought to have written. . . . you did, alfred. . . . ”

“i didn’t bother. the doctor said i wasn’t to bother. i told you. is there any tea going? where are the boys?”

“the boys are out. let me make you some fresh tea.” she did so and came and sat down in the cane chair in front of him and the tea-table. “i’m glad to have you back. though i could scold you. . . .

“you’re looking wonderfully well,” she said. “i’ve never seen your skin so clear and brown.”

“i’ve been in good air all the time.”

“did you get to the lakes?”

“not quite. but it’s been good air everywhere. healthy air.”

“you never got lost?”

“never.”

“i had ideas of you getting lost — losing your memory. such things happen. you didn’t?”

“my memory’s as bright as a jewel.”

“but where did you go?”

“i just wandered and dreamt. lost in a day-dream. often i didn’t ask the name of the place where i was staying. i stayed in one place and then in another. i never asked their names. i left my mind passive. quite passive. i’ve had a tremendous rest — from everything. i’ve hardly given a thought to politics or money or social questions — at least, the sort of thing we call social questions — or any of these worries, since i started. . . . is that this week’s liberal?”

he took it, turned it over, and at last tossed it on to the sofa. “poor old peeve,” he said. “of course i must leave that paper. he’s like wall-paper on a damp wall. just blotches and rustles and fails to stick. . . . gives me mental rheumatics.”

mrs. barnstaple stared at him doubtfully. “but i always thought that the liberal was such a safe job.”

“i don’t want a safe job now. i can do better. there’s other work before me. . . . don’t you worry. i can take hold of things surely enough after this rest. . . . how are the boys?”

“i’m a little anxious about frankie.”

mr. barnstaple had picked up the times. an odd advertisement in the agony column had caught his eye. it ran: “cecil. your absence exciting remark. would like to know what you wish us to tell people. write fully scotch address. di. ill with worry. all instructions will be followed.”

“i beg your pardon, my dear?” he said putting the paper aside.

“i was saying that he doesn’t seem to be settling down to business. he doesn’t like it. i wish you could have a good talk to him. he’s fretting because he doesn’t know enough. he says he wants to be a science student at the polytechnic and go on learning things.”

“well, he can. sensible boy! i didn’t think he had it in him. i meant to have a talk to him. but this meets me half-way. certainly he shall study science.”

“but the boy has to earn a living.”

“that will come. if he wants to study science he shall.”

mr. barnstaple spoke in a tone that was altogether new to mrs. barnstaple, a tone of immediate, quiet, and assured determination. it surprised her still more that he should use this tone without seeming to be aware that he had used it.

he bit his slice of bread-and-butter, and she could see that something in the taste surprised and displeased him. he glanced doubtfully at the remnant of the slice in his hand. “of course,” he said. “london butter. three days’ wear. left about. funny how quickly one’s taste alters.”

he picked up the times again and ran his eye over its columns.

“this world is really very childish,” he said. “very. i had forgotten. imaginary bolshevik plots. sinn fein proclamations. the prince. poland. obvious lies about the chinese. obvious lies about egypt. people pulling wickham steed’s leg. sham-pious article about trinity–sunday. the hitchin murder. . . . h’m! — rather a nasty one. . . . the pomfort rembrandt. . . . insurance. . . . letter from indignant peer about death duties. . . . dreary sport. boating, tennis, schoolboy cricket. collapse of harrow! as though such things were of the slightest importance! . . . how silly it is — all of it! it’s like coming back to the quarrels of servants and the chatter of children.”

he found mrs. barnstaple regarding him intently. “i haven’t seen a paper from the day i started until this morning,” he explained.

he put down the paper and stood up. for some minutes mrs. barnstaple had been doubting whether she was not the victim of an absurd hallucination. now she realized that she was in the presence of the most amazing fact she had ever observed.

“yes,” she said. “it is so. don’t move! keep like that. i know it sounds ridiculous, alfred, but you have grown taller. it’s not simply that your stoop has gone. you have grown oh! — two or three inches.”

mr. barnstaple stared at her, and then held out his arm. certainly he was showing an unusual length of wrist. he tried to judge whether his trousers had also the same grown-out-of look.

mrs. barnstaple came up to him almost respectfully. she stood beside him and put her shoulder against his arm. “your shoulder used to be exactly level with mine,” she said. “see where we are now!”

she looked up into his eyes. as though she was very glad indeed to have him back with her.

but mr. barnstaple remained lost in thought. “it must be the extreme freshness of the air. i have been in some wonderful air. . . . wonderful! . . . but at my age! to have grown! and i feel as though i’d grown, inside and out, mind and body.” . . .

mrs. barnstaple presently began to put the tea-things together for removal.

“you seem to have avoided the big towns.”

“i did.”

“and kept to the country roads and lanes.”

“practically. . . . it was all new country to me. . . . beautiful. . . . wonderful. . . . ”

his wife still watched him.

“you must take me there some day,” she said. “i can see that it has done you a world of good.”