They had advanced into Salisbury, and the cathedral, a public building, was grey against a tender sky. Rickie suggested that, while waiting for the train, they should visit it. He spoke of the incomparable north porch. “I’ve never been inside it, and I never will. Sorry to shock you, Rickie, but I must tell you plainly. I’m an atheist. I don’t believe in anything.” “I do,” said Rickie. “When a man dies, it’s as if he’s never been,” he asserted. The train drew up in Salisbury station. Here a little incident took place which caused them to alter their plans. They found outside the station a trap driven by a small boy, who had come in from Cadford to fetch some wire-netting. “That’ll do us,” said Stephen, and called to the boy, “If I pay your railway-ticket back, and if I give you sixpence as well, will you let us drive back in the trap?” The boy said no. “It will be all right,” said Rickie. “I am Mrs. Failing’s nephew.” The boy shook his head. “And you know Mr. Wonham?” The boy couldn’t say he didn’t. “Then what’s your objection? Why? What is it? Why not?” But Stephen leant against the time-tables and spoke of other matters. Presently the boy said, “Did you say you’d pay my railway-ticket back, Mr. Wonham?” “Yes,” said a bystander. “Didn’t you hear him?” “I heard him right enough.” Now Stephen laid his hand on the splash-board, saying, “What I want, though, is this trap here of yours, see, to drive in back myself;” and as he spoke the bystander followed him in canon, “What he wants, though, is that there trap of yours, see, to drive hisself back in.” “_I’ve_ no objection,” said the boy, as if deeply offended. For a time he sat motionless, and then got down, remarking, “I won’t rob you of your sixpence.” “Silly little fool,” snapped Rickie, as they drove through the town. Stephen looked surprised. “What’s wrong with the boy? He had to think it over. No one had asked him to do such a thing before. Next time he’d let us have the trap quick enough.” “Not if he had driven in for a cabbage instead of wire-netting.” “He never would drive in for a cabbage.” Rickie shuffled his feet. But his irritation passed. He saw that the little incident had been a quiet challenge to the civilization that he had known. “Organize.” “Systematize.” “Fill up every moment,” “Induce _esprit de corps_.” He reviewed the watchwords of the last two years, and found that they ignored personal contest, personal truces, personal love. By following them Sawston School had lost its quiet usefulness and become a frothy sea, wherein plunged Dunwood House, that unnecessary ship. Humbled, he turned to Stephen and said, “No, you’re right. Nothing is wrong with the boy. He was honestly thinking it out.” But Stephen had forgotten the incident, or else he was not inclined to talk about it. His assertive fit was over.