As he passed the Barradine Arms, he saw three louts leaning against a
dry bit of wall under the eaves of an outhouse. They stared at him
stupidly, not speaking or touching their caps, just loutishly
staring; and he stared at them with black severity. He thought how he
himself had been like one of those oafs, living in a cottage not so
many miles from this spot. No one now seemed to remember his humble
birth, his unhappy youth, his sordid home. Other people forgot
everything; while he could forget nothing.
At the Cross Roads he drew rein for a moment, as if undecided as to
which way to turn. Before going home he had to pay a business call,
and his destination was straight ahead of him, about four miles off as
the crow flies. The quickest way to get there, the line nearest to the
crow's line, would be to leave the road here and ride through Hadleigh
Wood, under the bare beeches, among the somber pines, along the gloomy
rides; and the alternative route would be to turn to the right, hold
to the open road, and follow its deflected course past the Abbey gates
and park, and all round the wild forest. That way would be three miles
longer than the other way. He turned his horse's head to the right;
and as he went on by the road, he was thinking of the terrible chapter
in his life that closed with the death of Mr.
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