The young doctor began by explaining how the island – for Southsea was an island, despite appearances – could be represented as a series of Chinese rings: open spaces at its centre, then the middle ring of the town, and then the outer ring of the sea. He told her about the gravelly soil and the quick drainage that resulted from it; about the efficiency of Sir Frederick Bramwell's sanitary arrangements; about the town's salubrious reputation. This last item caused Louisa a sudden distress, which she disguised by an enquiry about Bramwell. She was told a great deal about that distinguished engineer.

The groundwork thus laid, it was time to inspect the place properly. They visited both piers, where military bands seemed to play all day. They watched colours being trooped on the Governor's Green, and mimic engagements on the Common; through binoculars they inspected the nation's battle fleet riding at anchor in the middle distance at Spithead. They walked up the Clarence Esplanade while Arthur explained to her, one by one, all the trophies and memorials of warfare on display. Here a Russian gun, there a Japanese cannon and mortar, everywhere tablets and obelisks to sailors and infantrymen who had died in all quarters of the Empire and in every fashion – yellow fever, shipwreck, the perfidious action of Indian mutineers. She wondered if the doctor had a morbid streak to him; but preferred to decide, for the moment, that his interested curiosity matched his physical tirelessness. He even took her by horse-tram to the Royal Clarence Victualling Yard to watch the manufacturing process of ship's biscuit: from bag of flour to dough, to its conversion by heat into a souvenir which visitors had between their teeth as they left.

Miss Louisa Hawkins had not realized that courtship – if this was what it was – could be so strenuous, or so resemble tourism. Next they turned their eyes southward, to the Isle of Wight. From the Esplanade, Arthur pointed to what he termed the azure hills of the Vectian Isle, a turn of phrase which struck her as most poetic. They had a distant glimpse of Osborne House, and he explained how an increase in water traffic told when the Queen was in residence. Then they took a steamer across the Solent and round the island; her eye was directed to the Needles, Alum Bay, Carisbrooke Castle, the Landslip, the Undercliff – until she was obliged to call for a deckchair and a rug.

One evening, as they gazed out to sea from the South Parade Pier, he described his exploits in Africa and the Arctic; yet the way tears came into her eyes when he mentioned their purpose on the ice field made him refrain from bragging about his game-bag. She had, he discovered, an innate gentleness which he took to be characteristic of all women, once you got to know them. She was always ready to smile; but could not bear any humour which verged on cruelty, or implied the superiority of the humorist. She had an open, generous nature, a lovely head of curls, and a small income of her own.

In his previous dealings with women, Arthur had played the honourable flirt. Now, as they strolled this concentric resort, as she learned to take his arm, as her name changed in his mouth from Louisa to Touie, as he surreptitiously looked at her hips when she turned away, he knew he wanted more than flirtation. He also thought she would improve him as a man; which was, after all, one of the principles of marriage.

First, however, the young prospect had to be approved by the Mam, who travelled to Hampshire for the inspection. She found Louisa timid, tractable and of decent if not distinguished family. There was no vulgarity or obvious moral weakness likely to embarrass her beloved boy. Nor did there seem any lurking vanity which might at some future time make the girl bridle at Arthur's authority. The mother, Mrs Hawkins, seemed both pleasant and respectful. In giving her approval, the Mam even allowed herself to muse that there might perhaps be something about Louisa – just there, when she held herself in the light like that – which was reminiscent of her own younger self. And what more could a mother want than that, after all?

Since starting at Mason College, George has developed the habit of walking the lanes most evenings after his return from Birmingham. This is not for exercise – he had a lifetime of that at Rugeley – but to clear his head before settling down to his books again. As often as not, this fails to work, and he finds himself back in the minutiae of contract law. On this cold January evening, with a half-moon in the sky and the verges still shiny from last night's frost, George is muttering his way through his argument for tomorrow's moot debate – the case is about contaminated flour in a granary – when a figure jumps out at him from behind a tree.

'On your way to Walsall, eh?'

It is Sergeant Upton, red-faced and puffing.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You heard what I said.' Upton is standing close to him, staring in a way George finds alarming. He wonders if the Sergeant is a little loony; in which case, best to humour him.

'You asked if I was on my way to Walsall.'

'So you do have a bloody pair of ears after all.' He is wheezing like – like a horse, or a pig or something.

'I only wondered why you asked, because this is not the way to Walsall. As we both know.'

'As we both know. As we both know.' Upton takes a pace forwards and seizes George by the shoulder. 'What we both know, what we both know, is that you know the way to Walsall, and I know the way to Walsall, and you've been up to your little tricks in Walsall, haven't you?'

The Sergeant is definitely loony now; also hurting him. Is there any advantage in pointing out that he hasn't been to Walsall since this time two years ago, when he was buying Christmas presents for Horace and Maud?

'You been into Walsall, you've took the key to the school, you've brought it home and you've put it on your own front step, didn't you?'

'You're hurting me,' says George.

'Oh no I'm not. I'm not hurting you. This isn't hurting you. You want Sergeant Upton to hurt you, all you have to do is ask.'

George now feels as he did when he used to stare at the distant blackboard with no idea what the correct answer was. He feels as he did when he was about to soil himself. Without knowing quite why, he says, 'I'm going to be a solicitor.'

The Sergeant releases his grip, steps back, and laughs in George's face. Then he spits down towards George's boot.

'Is that what you think? A so-li-ci-tor? What a big word for a little mongrel like you. You think you'll become a so-li-ci-tor if Sergeant Upton says you won't?'

George stops himself saying that it is up to Mason College and the examiners and the Incorporated Law Society to decide whether or not he is to be a solicitor. He thinks he must get home as quickly as possible and tell Father.

'Let me ask you a question.' Upton 's tone seems to have softened, so George decides to humour him a moment longer. 'What are those things on your hands?'

George lifts his forearms, spreads his fingers automatically in his gloves. 'These?' he asks. The man must be mentally deficient.

'Yes.'

'Gloves.'

'Well then, being a clever young monkey and intending to be a so-li-ci-tor, you will know that a pair of gloves is known as Going Equipped, won't you?'

Then he spits again and stamps off down the lane. George bursts into tears.

He is ashamed of himself by the time he gets home. He is sixteen, he is not allowed to cry. Horace has not cried since he was eight. Maud cries a lot, but then she is an invalid as well as a girl.

George's father listens to his story and announces that he will write to the Chief Constable of Staffordshire. It is disgraceful that a common policeman should manhandle his son on a public highway and accuse him of theft. The officer should be dismissed from the force.