CHAPTER VIII.
And meanwhile the man of whom every single human being in Old Place, with the exception of the little village day girl, was thinking this afternoon, was coming ever nearer and nearer to Beechfield in an ecstasy of sentient joy at being "at home" again.
As Radmore motored along the Portsmouth Road through the warmly-beautiful autumn countryside, a feeling of exultation, of intense personal love for, and pride in, the old country, filled his heart.

Why had he stayed in London so long when all this tranquil, appealing loveliness of wood, stream, hill and hollow lay close at hand?
There are folk who deny the charm of Surrey--by whom this delicious county, with its noble stretches of wild, fragrant uplands, and wide, deep valleys, is dismissed as suburban.

But though they would deny it vehemently, the eyes of such folk are holden.
As he was borne along through the soft, lambent air, everything he passed appealed to his heart and imagination.

Each of the small, yet dignified, eighteenth-century houses, which add such distinction and grace to each Surrey township--Epsom, Leatherhead, Guildford--gave him a comfortable feeling of his country's well-being, of the essential stability of England.

Now and again, in some woodland glade where summer still lingered, he would pass by happy groups engaged in black-berrying; while on the road there waited the charabancs, the motor-cycles, the pony-traps, which had brought them.
Once, when they came to such a spot, he, Radmore, called out to his chauffeur to stop.