extraordinarily sensitive perceptions, leading him often outside the
political world in which he fought the battle of life, he was conscious
of a curious and grim premonition as the car, crawling down the
precipitous hillside, approached and was enveloped in the grey shroud.
The world which a few moments before had seemed so wonderful, the
sunlight, the distant view of the sea, the perfumes of flowers and
shrubs, had all gone. The car was crawling along a rough and stony
road, between hedges dripping with moisture and trees dimly seen like
spectres. At last, about three-quarters of the way down to the sea,
after an abrupt turn, they entered a winding avenue and emerged on to a
terrace. The chauffeur, who had felt the strain of the drive, ran a
little past the front door and pulled up in front of an uncurtained
window. Tallente glanced in, dazzled a little at first by the
unexpected lamplight. Then he understood the premonition which had sat
shivering in his heart during the long descent.


The mist, which had hung like a spectral curtain over the little demesne
of Martinhoe Manor, had almost entirely disappeared when, at a few
minutes before eight, with all traces of his long journey obliterated,
Andrew Tallente stepped out on to the stone-flagged terrace and looked
out across the little bay below. The top of the red sandstone cliff
opposite was still wreathed with mists, but the sunlight lay upon the
tennis lawn, the flower gardens below, and the rocks almost covered by
the full, swelling tide. Tall, and looking slimmer than ever in his
plain dinner garb, there were some indications of an hour of strange and
unexpected suffering in the tired face of the man who gazed out in
somewhat dazed fashion at the little panorama which he had been looking
forward so eagerly to seeing again. Throughout the long journey down
from town, he had felt an unusual and almost boyish enthusiasm for his