As he gazed out with dreamy eyes across the lane, watching the cattle which showed dimly in the meadow beyond and listening to the slow, ceaseless chatter of voices in the bar and the occasional sounds of the village, he had a vague feeling in his mind that he was ripe for conversation. He was not yet sufficiently accustomed to solitude to feel bored; ease and inactivity were still delightful companions, but nevertheless his mind did take hold for the first time of a certain indefinite feeling that he didn’t know quite what he was going to do with himself in this self-contained and seemingly lifeless spot. In town, whilst still shackled with work, nothing had seemed to him more deliciously original than to bury himself for his holiday in a picturesque and unexciting village, but it must be confessed that on this first evening a vague doubt as to the wisdom of this originality began to present itself to him. There wasn’t a soul to talk to, and he felt talkative, not to say, witty. In this last it is possible he may have been deceived, for no one had yet associated wit with Emmanuel Humblethorne. His colleagues in the Force would have described him as a good little fellow, painstaking and accurate rather than intuitive in his work, and kind and helpful in his social relations. He was universally popular, even with those against whom his work was necessarily directed, but not exactly celebrated for his wit; he was of too sterling and quiet a strain to seem to incur that dangerous reputation. Nevertheless the fact remains on record that on this first free evening of his holiday he felt almost witty, and had no one upon whom to exercise the unusual faculty. He was about to feel in his pocket for his pipe and rise from the table with the idea of strolling out and seeking amusement for himself, as it seemed obvious that none was coming to him of its own accord, when sounds outside indicated the arrival of another visitor to the Rose and Crown. But much to Humblethorne’s disappointment the newcomer, when at length he entered the coffee-room, showed himself openly, almost aggressively, indisposed to be sociable; he glanced at Humblethorne in a swift and rather nervous way which was certainly not suggestive of geniality, sat down at the furthest end of the table without a word and, after glancing at his watch, drew out a crumpled newspaper, put his elbows on the table and, resting his head upon his hands, began to read.