"Coming back again has turned my wits.... Now, Angelina, hurry up, can't
wait all day." He stopped then abruptly, to pull himself together. "Look
here, you're alone, and if you think you're not, you're mad. Remember
that you're at the Bar and not even a novelist, so that you have no
excuse."
The little platform--usually swept by all the winds of the sea, but now
as warm as a toasted bun--flooded him with memory. It was a platform
especially connected with school, with departure and return--departures
when money in one's pocket and cake in one's play-box did not compensate
for the hot pain in one's throat and the cold marble feeling of one's
legs; but when every feeling of every sort was swallowed by the great
overwhelming desire that the train would go so that one need not any
longer be agonised by the efforts of replying to Mr. Lasher's continued
last words: "Well, good-bye, my boy. A good time, both at work and
play"--the train was off.
"Ticket, please, sir!" said the long-legged young man at the little
wooden gate. Seymour plunged down into the deep, high-hedged lane that
even now, in winter, seemed to cover him with a fragrant odour of green
leaves, of flowers, of wet soil, of sea spray.
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