III-XXII

Buckley Simmons was late in arriving
from the hospital, and it was past seven before
the stage departed for Greenstream.
Buckley sat immediately back of Gordon Makimmon;
the former's head, muffled in a long woolen
scarf, showed only his dull, unwitting gaze.

They rapidly left the dank stone streets and
houses. The smoke ascending from the waterworks
was no greyer than the day. The rain fell in small,
chill, gusty sweeps.

Gordon Makimmon settled resolutely to the long
drive; he was oblivious of the miles of sodden road
stretching out behind, he was not aware of the pale,
dripping, wintry landscape -- he was lost in a continuous
train of memories wheeling bright and distant
through his mind. He was looking back upon
the features of the past as he might have looked at a
series of dissolving pictures, his interest in which
was solely that of spectator.

They were without unity, unintelligible in the
light of any concerted purpose or result. They
were, however, highly pleasant, or amazingly inexplicable.
For example:

[[356]]

p355 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p356w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p357

v?