THE WHITE COTTAGE Good-bye is an unpleasant word to say, and I said mine as quickly as possible, but I did not like the remembrance of Jill's wet cheek that I had kissed: I was haunted by it during the greater part of my brief journey.

For some inexplicable reason I had chosen to arrive at Heathfield late in the afternoon; I wanted to slip into my new home in the dusk.

I knew that Uncle Max would meet me at the station and look after my luggage, so I should have no trouble, and I hoped that I should wake up among my neighbours the next morning before they knew of my arrival.
When we stopped at some station a little while before we reached Heathfield, the guard put a gentleman in my compartment: I fancied they had not noticed me, for a large black retriever followed him.
The gentleman lifted his hat directly he saw me, and apologised for his dog's presence, until I assured him it made no difference to me; and then he drew a newspaper from his bag and tried to read by the somewhat flickering light.

As I had nothing else to do, and his attention was evidently very much absorbed, I looked at him from time to time in an idle, furtive sort of way.
He had taken off his hat and put it on the seat; his dark smooth-shaven face reminded me of a Romish priest, but he had no tonsure; instead of that he had thick closely-cropped hair without a hint or suspicion of baldness, was strongly built and very broad, and looked like a man who had undergone training.
I was rather given to study the countenances of my fellow-passengers,--it was a way I had,--but I was not particularly prepossessed with this man's face; it looked hard and stern, and his manner, though perfectly gentlemanly, was a little brusque.

I abandoned the Romish priest theory after a second glance, and told myself he was more like a Roman gladiator.
As we approached Heathfield, he folded up his paper and patted his dog, who had sat all this time at his feet, with his head on his knees.