Suppose he were now, at this moment, some Ramsgard boy returning to school? Suppose he were Solent Major instead of Wolf Solent? And suppose some genial housemaster, meeting him on the platform, were to say to him: “Well, Solent, and what have you made of your twenty-five years’ holiday?” What would he answer to that?

As the train began to lessen its pace by the muddy banks of the river Lunt, he hurriedly, and as if from fear of that imaginary master, formulated his reply.

“I’ve learnt, Sir, to get my happiness out of sensation. I’ve learnt, Sir, when to think and when not to think. I’ve learnt⁠ ⁠…”

But at this point his excitement at catching sight of the familiar shape of the Lovelace Hotel, across the Public Gardens, was so overwhelming, that the imaginary catechism came to an end in midair.