He was now thirty. He had come to Woodham for a holiday, because he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter. Woodham attracted him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him and money in his pocket. Why not get out? The landlady of ‘The George’ was only too glad to put him up, and promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his luggage. “And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.” “Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it. Cold anything-you’ve-got.” “What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best. “That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer.” While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking. “It must be rather fun to keep a country inn,” he said, thinking that it was about time he started another profession. “I don’t know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over.” “You ought to take a holiday,” said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully. “Funny thing your saying that,” said the landlord, with a smile. “Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only yesterday. Offered to take my place an all.” He laughed rumblingly. “The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?” “That’s right, sir. Stanton’s the next station to Woodham. The Red House is about a mile from here—Mr. Ablett’s.” Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from “The Red House, Stanton,” and signed “Bill.” “Good old Bill,” he murmured to himself. “He’s getting on.” Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist’s shop. Gillingham was on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley on the other. Something about Bill, his youth and freshness, perhaps, attracted Antony; and when cigarettes had been ordered, and an address given to which they were to be sent, he remembered that he had come across an aunt of Beverley’s once at a country-house. Beverley and he met again a little later at a restaurant. Both of them were in evening-dress, but they did different things with their napkins, and Antony was the more polite of the two. However, he still liked Bill. So on one of his holidays, when he was unemployed, he arranged an introduction through a mutual friend. Beverley was a little inclined to be shocked when he was reminded of their previous meetings, but his uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and he and Antony quickly became intimate. But Bill generally addressed him as “Dear Madman” when he happened to write. Antony decided to stroll over to the Red House after lunch and call upon his friend. Having inspected his bedroom which was not quite the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, but sufficiently clean and comfortable, he set out over the fields.