This, then, was the city of his dreams. Here, in a little while, he would find himself living the new life of leisure and spaciousness and culture which had become his chief ambition. This was his Mecca: “That lovely city with her dreaming spires,” he whispered to himself. It was indeed merciful that the vision of his second dream should come to cheer him when the first became so perilously near extinction. Even when the train began to slow down among red-brick suburbs of an appalling ugliness the mood of excitement had not faded. The train ran in smoothly, and the woman in black awoke and blew her nose. Edwin, looking out of the carriage window, saw a congregation of demigods in grey flannel trousers, celestial socks, and tweed Norfolk coats lounging with a grace that was Olympian upon the platform. All of them, he thought, were supremely happy. In this holy city happiness had her dwelling. One of them—his back was turned to Edwin—reminded him of Layton, the old head of the house. He remembered with a thrill, that Layton, who had won a scholarship at New College, was now in Oxford. Of course it must be he. Very excited, Edwin slipped out of the carriage and ran after him. “Layton!” he called. And the young man looked round. “What do you want?” he said. It wasn’t Layton at all. Edwin apologised. “I’m awfully sorry. I thought you were a chap I knew.” The porters were slamming the doors and he only just managed to scramble into his seat before the train started. The woman in black spoke for the first time. She had a soothing voice, with a west-country burr that reminded him of his father and Widdup. “I thought you were going to be left behind,” she said. “I saw your bag was labelled North Bromwich.” Shouts were heard on the platform. “North Bromwich next stop. . . . Next stop North Bromwich . . .” Edwin sat down panting, and the train moved off. “Next stop North Bromwich. . .” The words echoed in his brain, and chilled him. He didn’t want to look back to see the last of Oxford. Next stop North Bromwich. At North Bromwich he would know the worst. Swiftly, inevitably, the train was carrying him towards it. The tragedy had to be faced. He was seized with a sudden inconsolable fear of desolation. His eyes brimmed with tears so that the coloured landscape could not be seen any longer. The tears gathered and fell. He could feel them trickling down his cheeks, and when he knew that he could not hold them back any longer the strain of his emotion was too strong for him, and, against his will, he sobbed aloud, burying his face in his hands. The woman in black, hearing the sobs, raised her veil and looked at him. “What is it, my dear?” she said. “Oh, nothing . . . nothing.” “Folks don’t cry about nothing. . . .” She spoke quite kindly, and her kindness was too much for him. It gave him quite an unaccountable feeling of relief to speak about it. “It’s . . . it’s my mother,” he said.