Paul was well provided with funds, but as a tribute to his abandoned avocation he resolved to work his way to America. Through his dealings with exporters in Alexandria he obtained, after a short period of waiting, a berth as substitute officer on an oil tank bound for New York.
Thence, after calling on Gritty Kestrell, who was in the throes of rehearsals for Krauss's summer production, he proceeded to Boston, crossed by boat to Yarmouth, and made his way to Hale's Turning in an ambling train whose old-fashioned lamps and yellow plush seats called forth a legion of forgotten associations.
Schooners in muddy creeks, glimpses of the sparkling Bay of Fundy, white-washed wooden houses and red barns, trees heavy with green apples, stations with their quotas of staring, gaping, hard-voiced villagers and canopied carriages, broad dusty roads shaded by maples, the compactness of the turf, the carpets of clover, daisies, buttercups and dandelions, the cobalt blue of the sky, the cotton-white of the clouds, the leisurely pastoral quality of the whole passing scene, caused him an exquisite pain. As he drew nearer to his destination—the squalling sticky-handed children, the smell of oranges!—his throat grew dry and he caught himself biting his nails in nervous agitation. He longed to see his home, could scarcely wait—yet dreaded it, dreaded it. He felt shy.
