Kenny quickened his sagging foot-steps.

Drenched and hungry, he felt himself better able to see the thing in sane and unpoetic light.
It came to this: Would Brian prefer the rags of romantic loitering to the speed, train or otherwise, of eager affection?
Surely not! He must not be selfish.

Foot-sore or foot-fresh, his remorse would be the same.

With Brian it would be the inner things that counted.
At twilight Kenny found a thrifty farmer who agreed to take him in.

He dried his clothes by the kitchen fire, hating the woolly smell of the steam.