A phantasmagoric journey downstream; Rip seated on the cargo; the commander puffing imperturbably at a cigar. Now and then they stopped at other villages, smaller than London, but built on the same plan. Here curious Englishmen crowded the banks and paddled in to stare at him until peremptorily told to keep their distance. The nightmare journey continued.

Arrival at the coast; a large military station; uniforms of leather and fur; black faces; flags; saluting. A pier with a large steamer alongside; barracks and a government house. A Negro anthropologist with vast spectacles. Impressions became more vivid and more brief; momentary illumination like flickering lightning. Someone earnestly trying to talk to Rip. Saying English words very slowly; reading to him from a book, familiar words with an extraordinary accent; a black man trying to read Shakespeare to Rip. Someone measured his skull with calipers. Growing blackness and despair; restraint and strangeness; moments of illumination rarer and more fantastic.

At night when Rip woke up and lay alone with his thoughts quite clear and desperate, he said: “This is not a dream. It is simply that I have gone mad.” Then more blackness and wildness.

The officers and officials came and went. There was a talk of sending him “home.” “Home,” thought Rip and beyond the next official town, vague and more distant, he saw the orderly succession of characterless, steam-heated apartments, the cabin trunks and promenade decks, the casinos and bars and supper restaurants, that were his home.

And then later—how much later he could not tell—something that was new and yet ageless. The word “Mission” painted on a board; a black man dressed as a Dominican friar… and a growing clearness. Rip knew that out of strangeness, there had come into being something familiar; a shape in chaos. Something was being done. Something was being done that Rip knew; something that twenty-five centuries had not altered; of his own childhood which survived the age of the world. In a log-built church at the coast town he was squatting among a native congregation; some of them in cast-off uniforms; the women had shapeless, convent-sewn frocks; all round him dishevelled white men were staring ahead with vague, uncomprehending eyes, to the end of the room where two candles burned. The priest turned towards them his bland, black face.

“Ite, missa est.”

It was some days after the accident before Rip was well enough to talk. Then he asked for the priest who had been by his head when he recovered consciousness.

“What I can’t understand, Father, is how you came to be there.”

“I was called in to see Sir Alastair. He wasn’t badly hurt, but he had been knocked unconscious. You both had a lucky escape. It was odd Sir Alastair asking for me. He isn’t a Catholic, but he seems to have had some sort of dream while he was unconscious that made him want to see a priest. Then they told me you were here too, so I came along.”

Rip thought for a little. He felt very dizzy when he tried to think.

“Alastair had a dream too, did he?”

“Apparently something about the Middle Ages. It made him ask for me.”

“Father,” said Rip, “I want to make a confession… I have experimented in black art…”

The liner came into harbour at Southampton, late in the afternoon.

They had left the sun three days behind them; after the Azores there had been a high sea running; in the Channel a white mist. Tony had been awake all night, disturbed by the fog signals and the uncertainty of homecoming.

They berthed alongside the quay. Tony leant on the rail looking for his chauffeur. He had cabled to Hetton that he was to be met and would drive straight home. He wanted to see the new bathrooms. Half the summer workmen had been at Hetton. There would be several changes to greet him.

It had been an uneventful excursion. Not for Tony were the ardours of serious travel, desert or jungle, mountain or pampas; he had no inclination to kill big game or survey unmapped tributaries. He had left England because, in the circumstances, it seemed the correct procedure, a convention hallowed in fiction and history by generations of disillusioned husbands. He had put himself in the hands of a travel agency and for lazy months had pottered from island to island in the West Indies, lunching at Government Houses, drinking swizzles on club verandahs, achieving an easy popularity at Captains’ tables; he had played deck quoits and Ping-Pong, had danced on deck and driven with new acquaintances, on well-laid roads amid tropical vegetation. Now he was home again. He had thought less and less of Brenda during the passing weeks.

Presently he identified his chauffeur among the sparse population of the quay. The man came on board and took charge of the luggage. The car was waiting on the other side of the customs sheds.

The chauffeur said, “Shall I have the big trunk sent on by train?”

“There’s plenty of room for it behind the car, isn’t there?”

“Well, hardly, sir. Her ladyship has a lot of luggage with her.”

“Her ladyship?”

“Yes, sir. Her ladyship is waiting in the car. She telegraphed that I was to pick her up at the hotel.”

“I see. And she has a lot of luggage?”

“Yes, sir, an uncommon lot.”

“Well… perhaps you had better send the trunks by train.”

“Very good, sir.”

So Tony went out to the car alone, while his chauffeur was seeing to the trunks.

Brenda was in the back, shrunk into the corner. She had taken off her hat—a very small knitted hat, clipped with a brooch he had given her some years ago—and was holding it in her lap. There was deep twilight inside the car. She looked up without moving her head.

“Darling,” she said, “your boat was very late.”

“Yes, we had fog in the channel.”

“I got here last night. The people in the office said you’d be in early this morning.”

“Yes, we are late.”

“You can never tell with ships, can you?” said Brenda.

There was a pause. Then she said, “Aren’t you going to come in?”

“There’s a fuss about the luggage.”

“Blake will see to that.”

“He’s sending it by train.”

“Yes, I thought he would have to. I’m sorry I brought so much… You see, I brought everything. I’ve turned against that flat… It never quite lost the smell. I thought it was just newness, but it got worse. You know—radiator smell. So what with one thing and another I thought, how about giving it up.”

Then the chauffeur came back. He had settled everything about the luggage.

“Well, we’d better start right away.”

“Very good, sir.”

Tony got in beside Brenda, and the chauffeur shut the door on them. They ran through the streets of Southampton and out into the country. The lamps were already alight behind the windows they passed.

“How did you know I was coming this afternoon?”

“I thought you were coming this morning. Jock told me.”

“I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Jock said you’d be surprised.”

“How is Jock?”

“Something awful happened to him, but I can’t remember what. I think it was to do with politics—or it may have been a girl. I can’t remember.”

They sat far apart, each in a corner. Tony was very tired after his sleepless night. His eyes were heavy and the lights hurt them when the car passed through a bright little town.

“Have you been having a lovely time?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“No, rather lousy really. But I don’t expect you want to hear about that.”

“What are your plans?”

“Vague. What are yours?”

“Vague.”

And then in the close atmosphere and gentle motion of the car, Tony fell asleep. He slept for two and a half hours, with his face half hidden in the collar of his overcoat. Once, as they stopped at a level crossing, he half woke up and asked, deep down in the tweed, “Are we there?”