It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. ‘So it was. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. For you say that you swim. He'll settle it bravely. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. ‘Sapristi. Water sprung from the corners of the school roof, turning it into a gigantic fountain.
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