The season was high midsummer, the afternoon hot and drowsy with
scents of mown hay; and between the rattle of the fast trains it
seemed that we, native denizens of the Duchy, careless of
observation or applause, were executing a _tour de force_ in that
fine indolence which has been charged as a fault against us. That we
halted at every station goes without saying. Few sidings--however
inconsiderable or, as it might seem, fortuitous--escaped the
flattery of our prolonged sojourn. We ambled, we paused, almost
we dallied with the butterflies lazily afloat over the meadow-sweet
and cow-parsley beside the line; we exchanged gossip with
station-masters, and received the congratulations of signalmen on the
extraordinary spell of fine weather. It did not matter.
Three market-women, a pedlar, and a local policeman made up with me
the train's complement of passengers. I gathered that their business
could wait; and as for mine--well, a Norman porch is by this time
accustomed to waiting.
I will not deny that in the end I dozed at intervals in my empty
smoking compartment; but wish to make it clear that I came on the
Vision (as I will call it) with eyes open, and that it left me
staring, wide-awake as Macbeth.
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