It came there, across the Canon's sumptuous Turkey carpet, and demanded his presence.
"I must go," Seymour said, getting up and speaking in a strange, bewildered voice as though he were just awakening from a dream.

He left them, at last, promising to come and see them again.
He heard the Canon's voice in his ears: "Always a knife and fork, my boy ...

any time if you let us know." He stepped down into the little lighted streets, into the town with its cosy security and some scent, even then in the heart of winter, perhaps, from the fruit of its many orchards.

The moon, once again an orange feather in the sky, reminded him of those early days that seemed now to be streaming in upon him from every side.
Early next morning he caught the ten o'clock train to Clinton.
II "Why," in the train he continued to say to himself, "have I let all these years pass without returning?
Why have I never returned ?...

Why have I never returned ?" The slow, sleepy train (the London express never stops at Clinton) jerked through the deep valleys, heavy with woods, golden brown at their heart, the low hills carrying, on their horizons, white drifting clouds that flung long grey shadows.