They trusted him and told him more than they told many people. He had
never forgotten Mr. Pidgen; that walk, that vision of the Scarecrow,
stood, as such childish things will, for a landmark in his history. He
came to believe that those experiences that he knew, in his own life, to
be true, were true also for some others. That's as it may be. I can only
say that Barbara and Angelina, Bim and even Sarah Trefusis were his
friends. I daresay his theory is all wrong.
I can only say that I _know_ that they were his friends; perhaps, after
all, the Scarecrow _is_ shining somewhere in golden armour. Perhaps,
after all, one need not be so lonely as one often fancies that one is.
CHAPTER I
HENRY FITZGEORGE STRETHER
I
March Square is not very far from Hyde Park Corner in London Town.
Behind the whir and rattle of the traffic it stands, spacious and cool
and very old, muffled by the little streets that guard it, happily
unconscious, you would suppose, that there were any in all the world so
unfortunate as to have less than five thousand a year for their support.
Perhaps a hundred years ago March Square might boast of such superior
ignorance, but fashions change, to prevent, it may be, our own too
easily irritated monotonies, and, for some time now, the Square has been
compelled, here, there, in one corner and another, to admit the invader.
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