There was no occasion to yell. He was not very thirsty, and they were quite ready to serve him. Nor need he have drunk in the saddle, with the air of a warrior who carries important dispatches and has not the time to dismount. A real soldier, bound on a similar errand, rode up to the inn, and Stephen feared that he would yell louder, and was hostile. But they made friends and treated each other, and slanged the proprietor and ragged the pretty girls; while Rickie, as each wave of vulgarity burst over him, sunk his head lower and lower, and wished that the earth would swallow him up. He was only used to Cambridge, and to a very small corner of that. He and his friends there believed in free speech. But they spoke freely about generalities. They were scientific and philosophic. They would have shrunk from the empirical freedom that results from a little beer. That was what annoyed him as he rode down the new valley with two chattering companions. He was more skilled than they were in the principles of human existence, but he was not so indecently familiar with the examples. A sordid village scandal—such as Stephen described as a huge joke—sprang from certain defects in human nature, with which he was theoretically acquainted. But the example! He blushed at it like a maiden lady, in spite of its having a parallel in a beautiful idyll of Theocritus. Was experience going to be such a splendid thing after all? Were the outside of houses so very beautiful? “That’s spicy!” the soldier was saying. “Got any more like that?” “I’se got a pome,” said Stephen, and drew a piece of paper from his pocket. The valley had broadened. Old Sarum rose before them, ugly and majestic. “Write this yourself?” he asked, chuckling. “Rather,” said Stephen, lowering his head and kissing Æneas between the ears. “But who’s old Em’ly?” Rickie winced and frowned. “Now you’re asking. “‘Old Em’ly she limps, And as——’” “I am so tired,” said Rickie. Why should he stand it any longer? He would go home to the woman he loved. “Do you mind if I give up Salisbury?” “But we’ve seen nothing!” cried Stephen. “I shouldn’t enjoy anything, I am so absurdly tired.” “Left turn, then—all in the day’s work.” He bit at his moustache angrily. “Good gracious me, man!—of course I’m going back alone. I’m not going to spoil your day. How could you think it of me?” Stephen gave a loud sigh of relief. “If you do want to go home, here’s your whip. Don’t fall off. Say to her you wanted it, or there might be ructions.” “Certainly. Thank you for your kind care of me.” “‘Old Em’ly she limps, And as——’” Soon he was out of earshot. Soon they were lost to view. Soon they were out of his thoughts. He forgot the coarseness and the drinking and the ingratitude. A few months ago he would not have forgotten so quickly, and he might also have detected something else. But a lover is dogmatic. To him the world shall be beautiful and pure. When it is not, he ignores it.