A strange thing had happened. The dream in which he had lived and worked and slept and eaten for the last six months had suddenly fallen back from him, leaving him utterly alone with his brother and sister. His life in London, with all its struggle and ambition, was as something far off, unreal; no part of his life seemed real, except what he had spent with Len and Janey. After all did anything really matter as much as they? They had been with him always, and his dream had sustained him only a few months. He thought of their childhood together in the old Sussex house, of their adventures and scrapes and hide-and-seeks; he thought of their growing-up, of the wonderful discoveries they had made about themselves, and shared; he thought of their arrival at Sparrow Hall, full of pluck and plans, of the difficulties that had damped the one and dashed the other--of the awful disgrace that had separated the three Furlongers for damnable years. Len and Janey had been his pals, his comrades, his comforters before he had so much as heard of Tony. She was not dethroned, his dream was not dead, but the past which he had half impatiently thrust behind him was coming back to show that it, as well as the future, held treasures and the immortality of love. The half-hour was nearly over, and the platform was dotted with men and women in evening dress, who had come up from the country to the theatres, and now were going home by the last train. Nigel shut himself into a third-class carriage. The train was not very crowded, and no one disturbed him. Almost mechanically he lighted a cigarette, then leaned back, closing his eyes. The train began to move--it pulled itself together with a shudder, then slid slowly out of the station. Signal lights swept past, whistles wailed up out of the darkness and died away--suburban stations gleamed--then the train swung out into the night.