in my body singing with delight, and we went down the platform to
choose our carriage.

When the train started from Charing Cross the day was dull and
heavy-looking; warm, without sunshine. But after an hour's run from
town we got into an atmosphere of crystal and gold and the Kentish
fruit trees stretched round us a sea of pink and white foam under a
cloudless sky.

When we stepped out at our destination, a little sleepy country
station, the air seemed like nectar to us. It was the breath of May,
real merry, joyous English May at the height of her wayward, uncertain
beauty.

We left our light luggage at the station, and walked out from it,
choosing at random the first white, undulating road that opened before
us.

The little village clustered round the station, but Viola did not want
to lodge in the village.

"We can come back to it if we are obliged, but we shall be sure to
find a cottage or a wayside inn."

So we went on slowly in the transparent light of a perfect May
afternoon.

There are periods when England both in climate and landscape is
perfect, when her delicate, elusive loveliness can compare favourably
with the barbaric glory, the wild magnificence of other countries.