In his hot box Shearwater sweated and pedalled. He was across the Channel now; he felt himself safe. Still he trod on; he would be at Amiens by midnight if he went on at this rate. He was escaping, he had escaped. He was building up his strong light dome of life. Proportion, cried the old man, proportion! And it hung there, proportioned and beautiful in the dark, confused horror of his desires, solid and strong and durable among his broken thoughts. Time flowed darkly past. “And now,” said Mrs. Viveash, straightening herself up, and giving herself a little shake, “now we’ll drive to Hampstead and have a look at Piers Cotton.” PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Antic Hay, by Aldous Huxley