He was now thirty. He had come to Woodham for a holiday, because he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter. Woodham attracted him, and he had a suitcase in the carriage with him and money in his pocket. Why not get out?

The landlady of the George was only too glad to put him up, and promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his luggage.

“And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.”

“Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it. Cold anything-you’ve-got.”

“What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.

“That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer.”