Chapter 10

The three miles to Feathers were lovely, for they were three English country miles and there was a hoar frost. The white magic of the hedgerows, the bewildering tracery of the woods, the exquisite filigree of wayside trees made up a glowing canticle: the road rang under the feet—a jolly sound: free of his swaddling mists, the sun, a merry monarch, rejoiced a gay, blue sky: a sober flight of rooks cawed and swung in the air: in the distance, a hazy Mendip lifted a sleepy head: and, presently, in the immediate foregr…