again, then turned upon the soundless grass towards the hill. He
felt not the faintest astonishment or strangeness in his solitude
here; only a little chilled, and physically uneasy; and yet in
this vast darkness a faint spiritual exaltation seemed to hover.

He hastened up the narrow path, walking with knees a little bent,
like an old labourer who has lived a life of stooping, and came
out into the dry and dusty lane. One moment his instinct
hesitated as to which turn to take--only a moment; he was soon
walking swiftly, almost trotting, downhill with this vivid
exaltation in the huge dark night in his heart, and Sheila merely
a little angry Titianesque cloud on a scarcely perceptible
horizon. He had no notion of the time; the golden hands of his
watch were indiscernible in the gloom. But presently, as he
passed by, he pressed his face close to the cold glass of a
little shop-window, and pierced that out by an old Swiss
cuckoo-clock. He would if he hurried just be home before dinner.

He broke into a slow, steady trot, gaining speed as he ran on,
vaguely elated to find how well his breath was serving him. An
odd smile darkened his face at remembrance of the thoughts he had
been thinking. There could be little amiss with the heart of a
man who could shamble along like this, taking even pleasure, an
increasing pleasure in this long, wolf-like stride. He turned
round occasionally to look into the face of some fellow-wayfarer
whom he had overtaken, for he felt not only this unusual
animation, this peculiar zest, but that, like a boy on some
secret errand, he had slightly disguised his very presence, was
going masked, as it were. Even his clothes seemed to have
connived at this queer illusion. No tailor had for these ten