“I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. John stared palely. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. Hitherto in the world’s history there had been precursors of this Progress at great intervals, voices that had spoken and ceased, but now it was all coming on together in a rush. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice.
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