He had left Stephen preparing to bathe, and had heard him working up-stream like an animal, splashing in the shallows, breathing heavily as he swam the pools; at times reeds snapped, or clods of earth were pulled in. By the fire he remembered it was again November. “Should you like a walk?” he asked Leighton, and told him who stopped in the village tonight. Leighton was pleased. At nine o’clock the two young men left the house, under a sky that was still only bright in the zenith. “It will rain tomorrow,” Leighton said. “My brother says, fine tomorrow.” “Fine tomorrow,” Leighton echoed. “Now which do you mean?” asked Rickie, laughing. Since the plumes of the fir-trees touched over the drive, only a very little light penetrated. It was clearer outside the lodge gate, and bubbles of air, which seemed to have travelled from an immense distance, broke gently and separately on his face. They paused on the bridge. He asked whether the little fish and the bright green weeds were here now as well as in the summer. The footman had not noticed. Over the bridge they came to the cross-roads, of which one led to Salisbury and the other up through the string of villages to the railway station. The road in front was only the Roman road, the one that went on to the downs. Turning to the left, they were in Cadford. “He will be with the Thompsons,” said Rickie, looking up at dark eaves. “Perhaps he’s in bed already.” “Perhaps he will be at The Antelope.” “No. Tonight he is with the Thompsons.” “With the Thompsons.” After a dozen paces he said, “The Thompsons have gone away.” “Where? Why?” “They were turned out by Mr. Wilbraham on account of our broken windows.” “Are you sure?” “Five families were turned out.” “That’s bad for Stephen,” said Rickie, after a pause. “He was looking forward—oh, it’s monstrous in any case!” “But the Thompsons have gone to London,” said Leighton. “Why, that family—they say it’s been in the valley hundreds of years, and never got beyond shepherding. To various parts of London.” “Let us try The Antelope, then.” “Let us try The Antelope.” The inn lay up in the village. Rickie hastened his pace. This tyranny was monstrous. Some men of the age of undergraduates had broken windows, and therefore they and their families were to be ruined. The fools who govern us find it easier to be severe. It saves them trouble to say, “The innocent must suffer with the guilty.” It even gives them a thrill of pride. Against all this wicked nonsense, against the Wilbrahams and Pembrokes who try to rule our world Stephen would fight till he died. Stephen was a hero. He was a law to himself, and rightly. He was great enough to despise our small moralities. He was attaining love. This evening Rickie caught Ansell’s enthusiasm, and felt it worth while to sacrifice everything for such a man. “The Antelope,” said Leighton. “Those lights under the greatest elm.”