He broke off suddenly, realising that his voice had been raised unduly and that the man at the far end of the table might understand German; and at the same moment he looked up and saw that this individual’s eyes were fixed upon his face intently.  They were peculiarly bright.  Also they were rather wonderful eyes, and the way they met his own served in some way he could not understand to convey both a reproach and a warning.  The whole face of the stranger, indeed, made a vivid impression upon him, for it was a face, he now noticed for the first time, in whose presence one would not willingly have said or done anything unworthy.  Harris could not explain to himself how it was he had not become conscious sooner of its presence.

But he could have bitten off his tongue for having so far forgotten himself.  The little priest lapsed into silence.  Only once he said, looking up and speaking in a low voice that was not intended to be overheard, but that evidently was overheard, “You will find it different.”  Presently he rose and left the table with a polite bow that included both the others.

And, after him, from the far end rose also the figure in the tweed suit, leaving Harris by himself.

He sat on for a bit in the darkening room, sipping his coffee and smoking his fifteen-pfennig cigar, till the girl came in to light the oil lamps.  He felt vexed with himself for his lapse from good manners, yet hardly able to account for it.  Most likely, he reflected, he had been annoyed because the priest had unintentionally changed the pleasant character of his dream by introducing a jarring note.  Later he must seek an opportunity to make amends.  At present, however, he was too impatient for his walk to the school, and he took his stick and hat and passed out into the open air.

And, as he crossed before the Gasthaus, he noticed that the priest and the man in the tweed suit were engaged already in such deep conversation that they hardly noticed him as he passed and raised his hat.

He started off briskly, well remembering the way, and hoping to reach the village in time to have a word with one of the Brueder.  They might even ask him in for a cup of coffee.  He felt sure of his welcome, and the old memories were in full possession once more.  The hour of return was a matter of no consequence whatever.

It was then just after seven o’clock, and the October evening was drawing in with chill airs from the recesses of the forest.  The road plunged straight from the railway clearing into its depths, and in a very few minutes the trees engulfed him and the clack of his boots fell dead and echoless against the serried stems of a million firs.  It was very black; one trunk was hardly distinguishable from another.  He walked smartly, swinging his holly stick.  Once or twice he passed a peasant on his way to bed, and the guttural “Gruss Got,” unheard for so long, emphasised the passage of time, while yet making it seem as nothing.  A fresh group of pictures crowded his mind.  Again the figures of former schoolfellows flitted out of the forest and kept pace by his side, whispering of the doings of long ago.  One reverie stepped hard upon the heels of another.  Every turn in the road, every clearing of the forest, he knew, and each in turn brought forgotten associations to life.  He enjoyed himself thoroughly.