He had twice made the classic round—­along the cliffs, over the New Bridge (which was an antique), up the hill to the castle, through the market-place, down the High Street to the Old Bridge.  He had explored the brain of the landlord, who could not grapple with a time-table, and who spent most of the time during closed hours in patiently bolting the front door which G.J. was continually opening.  He had talked to the old customer who, whenever the house was open, sat at a table in the garden over a mug of cider.  He had played through all the musical comedies, dance albums and pianoforte albums that littered the piano.  He had read the same Sunday papers that he read in the Albany.  And he had learnt the life-history of the sole servant, a very young agreeable woman with a wedding-ring and a baby, which baby she carried about with her when serving at table.  Her husband was in France.  She said that as soon as she had received his permission to do so she should leave, as she really could not get through all the work of the hotel and mind and feed a baby.  She said also that she played the piano herself.  And she regretted that baby and pressure of work had deprived her of a sight of the Russian dancers, because she had heard so much about them, and was sure they were beautiful.  This detail touched G.J.’s heart to a mysterious and sweet and almost intolerable melancholy.  He had not made the acquaintance of fellow-guests—­for there were none, save Concepcion and Emily.

And in the evening as in the morning the weir placidly murmured, and the river slipped smoothly between the huge jutting buttresses of the Old Bridge; and the thought of the perpetuity of the river, in whose mirror the venerable town was a mushroom, obsessed him, mastered him, and made him as old as the river.  He was wonder-struck and sorrow-struck by life, and by his own life, and by the incomprehensible and angering fantasy of Concepcion.  His week-end took on the appearance of the monstrous.  Then the door opened again, and Concepcion entered in a white gown, the antithesis of her sporting costume of the day before.  She approached through the thickening shadows of the room, and the vague whiteness of her gown reminded him of the whiteness of the form climbing the chimney-ladder on the roof of Lechford House in the raid.  Knowing her, he ought to have known that, having made him believe that she would not come down, she would certainly come down.  He restrained himself, showed no untoward emotion, and said in a calm, genial voice:  “Oh!  I’m so glad you were well enough to come down.”

She sat opposite to him in the window-seat, rather sideways, so that her skirt was pulled close round her left thigh and flowed free over the right.  He could see her still plainly in the dusk.