On the Saturday morning before the August Bank Holiday Mr. Hobbs left a note for her on her desk. She slipped it in her hand-bag without opening it.... She was concerned with other things. And when she got home on Saturday afternoon she discovered on her table a card left by the Rev. Elkin Broodbank, of St. Luke’s Vicarage, Bockley. This also she dropped unceremoniously into her hand-bag.... She was concerned with other things.... She next took up an A.B.C. railway guide, and searched it carefully for some minutes. Then she shut it with a bang and went to her bedroom to decorate herself. She was not so charming as she once had been, and so the process of decoration became a longer one. Her hair--the thing of her she most prized--had begun to be dull and lack-lustre: the eyes, too, had lost vivacity. She was no longer a young woman.... Oh, the horror of growing old, when youth has taken charm away! ... But she was concerned with other things. She scribbled a note to Mrs. Lazenby and left it on the kitchen table. Then she walked discreetly down the steps into Cubitt Lane, and by way of Makepeace Common to Bockley Station.... CHAPTER XXIV THE LAST PHASE § 1 ON the Colchester and Ipswich train it was still possible for her to think. I am not necessarily going to Barhanger. I have a ticket to Holleshont, and there are many places one can get to from Holleshont besides Barhanger. Besides, even if I do get to Barhanger, Barhanger is no doubt an ideal place in which to spend a Bank Holiday week-end. There is no earthly reason why I shouldn’t go to Barhanger. It is close to the sea, and I need a holiday.... And secretly she rejoiced at the ecstasy of the thought: I am going to see him. Whatever he says or does, whatever the issue may be, whatever I suffer then or afterwards, I shall see him.... As the train rolled over the drab eastern suburbs she revelled in the sensation that every throb and pulsation of the wheels narrowed the distance between herself and him.... And withal came another part of her answering her coldly, reprovingly: You are silly to go on this fool’s errand. You are losing the satisfaction and contentment it took you so long to acquire. Where now is your ambition to lead a quiet, sedate and respectable life, without the storm and stress of emotional escapades? Where now in your mind’s perspective are Mr. Hobbs and the Rev. Elkin Broodbank? Oh, you fool! you will suffer, and it will be your own fault. You will have the old slow fight over again, you will have to build up your contentment right from the bottom.... Oh, you fool! ... And still her heart answered: I don’t care. I am going to _see_ him.... I am going to see _him_.... Between Romford and Chelmsford she remembered the unopened letter that she had in her hand-bag from Mr. Hobbs. She tore it open and read it. It was a strange mixture of hopeless adoration and ruffled dignity. MY DEAR MISS WESTON,