I drifted down to Etchingham that evening, I sent a messenger over to Churchill's cottage, waited for an answer that told me that Churchill was there, and then slept, and slept.
I woke back in the world again, in a world that contained the land steward and the manor house.

I had a sense of recovered power from the sight of them, of the sunlight on the stretches of turf, of the mellow, golden stonework of the long range of buildings, from the sound of a chime of bells that came wonderfully sweetly over the soft swelling of the close turf.

The feeling came not from any sense of prospective ownership, but from the acute consciousness of what these things stood for.

I did not recognise it then, but later I understood; for the present it was enough to have again the power to set my foot on the ground, heel first.

In the streets of the little town there was a sensation of holiday, not pronounced enough to call for flags, but enough to convey the idea of waiting for an event.
The land steward, at the end of a tour amongst cottages, explained there was to be a celebration in the neighbourhood--a "cock-and-hen show with a political annex"; the latter under the auspices of Miss Churchill.
Churchill himself was to speak; there was a possibility of a pronouncement.