“This way ...” said Helen, guiding her into the Station Road. “We’ll just be able to catch the 9.45....” § 3 Helen left the train at Upton Rising, but Catherine went on to Bockley. The Town Hall struck the hour of ten as she was walking up the station approach. At this time the crowds along the High Street were beginning to disperse; the trams and buses were full of returning excursionists. Neglectful of the time and with no very definite aim in view, Catherine turned into the Ridgeway. It was directly opposite to the quickest way home, but its shady avenues and flower-scented front gardens suited her mood better than the stark frowsiness of Hanson Street. Her mind was in flux. She did not know whether what had happened was going to be an important stage in her life or not. She did not know how much of her feeling was disappointment, and how much was mere wounded dignity. She could not estimate the depth of the feeling she had had for George Trant. It seemed inconceivable that she had ever been in love with him.... She started to administer to herself wholesome correctives. “It’s no good,” she told herself brutally, “your imagining yourself the heroine of a tragedy, suffering more poignantly than ninety-nine people out of every hundred, because it’s not the truth. What you are feeling now is felt sometime or other by the majority of all people: there’s nothing a bit singular or exceptional in your case. It’s a mistake to pride yourself on suffering more exquisitely than other people.” Then she poured cold logic over herself. “He’s only one man among millions, and in no sense is he markedly superior to the average. A certain spurious cleverness, a talent for mockery, a deft finesse in expressing cruel things in soft words ... absurd that he should become so much to you or to any girl ... there’s nothing admirable in him, therefore you are lucky to get rid of him.” It sounded convincing enough. She walked on, scarce heeding whither she was going, and all the time her mood alternated between stormy resentment and cold self-reproach. There were moments too of grey hopelessness, and it was only her constantly recurring indignation that swept her out of these. Every inch of the roads she traversed was associated with him: every gate and tree seemed to call out in mocking melancholy--“This was where ... this was where....” Not a street corner but was inextricably bound up in her mind with some remark of his and the exact phase of their relationship when he had uttered it....